Alan put down the box and looked at the two narrow beds. "I am going to hit somebody for this."
"I thought ye got along well with Sandriel when ye worked with him. He even helped with your healing when you got shot."
"He did. I think he'd be angry if any angel broke the Law. I think he was particularly upset that I was the one attacked. I think he did not want to wait until I was back in the office to get my side of the story. But, Eric, he crossed our threshold without invitation, and he brought an officer of the London Garrison with him. Sooner or later that entire Flight will know where we live. Some of them will blame me for whatever sentence is passed on the squab who attacked me. Immature angels can be just as stupid as immature humans. We've lost our home. We're tucked away in basic housing. With single beds too short for you. Right now I am extremely annoyed."
There was a knock on the door frame.
"Mister Humphries?"
"Mister Slingby?"
Two men peered in through the open door. "You're living here now? Anything we can help with? We live right across the hallway."
"Smithfield and Ten Hagen. Good to see you. Yes, we're here temporarily. Just moving in."
Ten Hagen looked around at the bare quarters. "Oh, bother. Just a moment."
"I've got it," said Smithfield, and vanished.
"We'll fix you up," said Ten Hagen, "Hold on a second." There was a rattle and several clangs from across the hall. Ten Hagen pulled the mattresses from the beds.
Smithfield returned with four large metal devices around one wrist. "We always keep a few C-clamps around. It's the war, you see. An awful lot of people don't sleep well. Doubling up with your partner keeps the nightmares down. So we bolt the bedframes together. Still pretty narrow but it works. Now we just toss the mattresses back on— oof— and put on the bottom sheets as normal… There. Then you put on the top sheets sideways, and the blankets, there you go. It might be a little short for you, Mister Slingby, you can ask for an extra-long bed. Or you can go shopping in the rooms that have gone empty. Just tell Housing if you swap furniture, so they can adjust their records."
"I have a larger blanket to put on top", said Alan, popping open his box. "Here we go."
"Oh, nice. If you put that box at the end of the bed and pile your duffels on top, Mister Slingby's feet will be supported."
"Ach, we're not in the office. It's Eric and Alan. When are the cleaners and laundry pickup scheduled?"
"Then it's Smitty and Dutch, and that would be Tuesday for both."
"Will Housing complain about the beds being clamped together?"
"No. They did get shirty about it the first time, but the residents had just had a really bad shift, and they erupted like Krakatoa," said Smitty. "We demonstrated that the frames were undamaged and easily uncoupled. They wrote it into the rules as an acceptable modification."
"D'ye not have an ombudsman here?" rumbled Eric.
"Three of them in two years. Lost in France." Dutch sighed. "We looked around for a resident who isn't doing battlefields. We asked Mister Jacobs. He and Fairbairn live on the fourth floor. He agreed, and Housing agreed, so we do have a spokesman with some life expectancy. Housing's been really accommodating since then, though."
"Avram's a good man who believes the best of everyone he meets. Nobody wants to disappoint him."
"Everybody's grandpapa, isn't he?"
"If yer grandsire carried an axe and three knives, aye."
"We've set up a small common room for this floor of this wing. It's at the end of the corridor. I've installed a hot plate so we can brew tea, there's better chairs and lighting," offered Smitty. "Card and board games whenever anyone has a spare hour or can't sleep. Rules are, leave it clean and replace anything you use up. We all contribute the occasional box of pastries or tins of tea. Werther's candy bowl's still there in a place of honor. Tradition says it can never be less than half full."
"We'll likely not be here very long, but we'll be happy to contribute. Did something happen to Werther?"
"Missing for some time now. Not listed as Lost. His glasses are out of range. He might have been temporarily transferred or seconded to a foreign unit. Or he's in a hospital somewhere."
"A good man," said Alan. "I'm sure he'll be back soon. Smitty, we're probably going to live here sporadically. Right now we're waiting for an apartment to be painted and patched. We may have to move every so often, and this will be our home between homes. Don't be surprised if we suddenly appear or disappear, okay? And don't give out our addresses to anyone, please."
"Angels. We heard. When Angels never set foot in the Reaper Realm outside the plusher meeting rooms and bars. We say nothing to nobody, fine. And we watch out for snoopers," said Dutch.
"When you move out, let me know," grinned Smitty. "I'll put a Franklin portal lock on your door. You'll set the code yourself and warn the cleaners to stay out. When you return, you'll need to dust the place, but you'll know that nobody's been fossicking around in there."
"Can you do that for our apartment, when it's ready? I really like that idea," said Eric. "We'll pay for the devices and your labor in whatever currency you prefer."
"Sure, but clear it with Housing first. Arrange to let Maintenance in. They won't like retrieving a cleaning crew from the Amazon jungle. I'd rather not have them angry with us. We have an extensively modified room and don't want to be evicted."
"What if someone tries to kick the door down, rather than guess the code or jimmy the lock?"
"Same jungle, twenty feet up, over a river full of toothy fish. Plus one-third of the floor's residents rolling out of bed spoiling for a fight. Soundproofing's not that good here."
"Can the boobytrap move with us from place to place? If Alan and I are lost without giving anyone the code, can it be defused?"
"Sure, it's removeable. They'll need me to do it, or Cole, or Franklin. You might seal your code in an envelope and give it to a trusted noncombatant. You'll want to change it occasionally."
"Wait a minute…" Alan paused. Dutch and Eric recognized his expression and grinned. Smitty was curious but silent.
"Ah. What if those locks could be mass-produced? Fitted on all the doors in Housing? No more worries about invasion. Or, at least, unwanted visitors would be confined to the hallways. Smitty, could that be done? Or should I ask Franklin? Do you inventors get a royalty when your designs are produced and sold? I think you should. Supplies might use them on storerooms. Medical on drug cabinets. Scythes on metal storage. Have them all route intruders to a room in deepest Admin, where Security can ask 'em their business? Maybe fit that room with those porting preventers, in case one or two of the intruders are Demonic?"
Eric cackled. "Deep, aye. A cold, damp deep. One dim light. Chained upside down, eye to eye with a hungry rat of unusual size. Never to be freed until they've spun gold from a rotting pile of moldy paper. Doomed forever to duplicate, cross-reference and file the reports of centuries past."
Alan gave Eric a worried look. Smitty looked impressed. Dutch looked appalled.
"Well, the demons would feel right at home, wouldn't they? Some of them might sign on with Admin. And wouldn't it be embarrassing for the poor sod who came in too drunk to punch his code? And the angels. They'd flash off home with the stuff of nightmares imprinted behind their eyes."
"Ah, perhaps it might be better to work on a version which would cover the whole building. Or simply key on London glasses...let me think about it," said Smitty. "I should start by buying Les and Donnie a drink. They're the original designers."
"Operations, Humphries speaking."
The line snapped and crackled. A call from the Continent.
"Humphries? Burns. I've a message from Fancher...what, nurse? Tell her I'll fill out the forms when I'm off the phone. When I'm off the phone. Not until I'm off the phone, lady. (Unintelligible scolding.) When I'm done, lady, only a minute. (Louder unintelligible scolding.) Alan, you still there? Charlie says...Lady? Go away. There is not one single solitary thing you can offer here that is any better than a few hours in his own bed and a trip to London Spectacles. Alan? Listen, I'm at Medical Waystation 138. Charlie's blind from a bad Reap. He says the Reap didn't go to the Light. The Light came to the Reap like a lightning strike. Charlie says the Reap told him to report to you, one word, but the staff here won't let him. He says 'Matthias.' He says you'll know what it means, he doesn't."
"Matthias? Oh, my. Thank you. Do you need help they can't give? Do you need me to pull rank?"
"Nah. Some Admin type is demanding paper before treatment. Pure power game. I bet there's a new boss here who's trying to build a hardass rep by instituting a list of stupid procedures." (Outraged clucking.) "Needs to be reported because it's delaying patient care. If I bring Charlie to the portal, we can get to the Academy hospital for prompt attention."
"Jonas, hold fast. I'm sending help." Alan hung up the phone, grabbed his jacket and ran for his door.
"Mitch!" Sorenson leaped up from his desk. "We've got an Admin problem at a surgical outpost, Medical Waystation 138. You and Mallory are going to bring Charlie Fancher to our emergency-care room here and then take him to the Academy Hospital. Be ready to counter interference from the staff.
"Bradshaw, call Dorrie Depoy. I want an Admin with Auditing training. Then please alert whoever is working the first-aid room. We'll be returning with an injured Reaper. Blindness due to overexposure to the Light." Alan drew on his jacket and snugged his bolo tie. Dora DePoy appeared from her office.
"Dorrie, I've a report of Admin problems at a medical waystation that may be interfering with emergency care. It might be just a complaint from an irate partner, or it might be that care is denied pending paperwork. Can you come to investigate, or send along somebody you trust?"
Mitch Sorenson had long ago stopped trying to restrain his boss's temper. His job was to go, protect, kill a few mannerless beings if necessary, and bring his boss back intact.
Dora DePoy was a century older, aged in oak and tannin. "Alan, stand down. That is a battlefield destination. Madame Administrator will have any scraps of your hide that are left when Spears and Slingby are done with you. I will go with Mitch. Mitch and Mallory will be right back with Senior Fancher. I'll sort things out at the Waystation. We don't know who is in charge over there. If they are truly withholding patient care in favor of documentation, we need to go straight to Auditing and the senior medical staff at the Academy Hospital. Mister Bradshaw, if I do not return or contact you within the hour, alert Sarah Goodfellow in Auditing. Get a written report from Senior Burns. Alan, be ready to call in Doctor Collins if necessary."
Alan led the strike team to the War Room, asked Tomkins to dial up the Waystation, and watched his people step through the Portal. He walked over to the emergency-care room, now located next to the War Room. The nurse was waiting at the door. "Nurse, we expect a patient with Light-blindness. Sounds like he's otherwise unhurt, but please check him over?"
"Yes, Senior. Then I'll shoot him over to the Academy Hospital for Doctor Warburton to examine. She's the expert on eye injuries."
Alan returned to the War Room just as his war party stormed back through the portal. Sorenson was carrying Fancher pick-a-back, DePoy had Burns' arm, and Mallory followed as rearguard. Fancher's eyes were bound with a handkerchief. Alan simply held the door while Sorenson swept through. As the nurse took over, Alan turned to Mallory. "Anybody stupid enough to try to follow you here?"
"No, not quite. Pity. They need the kind of beating they'd get if they tried." Sorenson gestured to the Security personnel lining the walls, waiting for excitement. "But London has a reputation."
Dorrie waved Burns off to join his partner in the medical room. "I'll take care of this, Alan. Classic case of a good worker mishandling a sudden promotion. Thought she had to prove dominance over former equals by nit-picking the rules. Co-workers object, new boss feels threatened and retaliates, subordinates begin malicious compliance. Auditing will be over there in ten minutes Medical will send a replacement management team in fifteen." Dorrie stalked off to her office to call down retribution upon the Waystation.
Alan returned to the first-aid room. The nurse was tidying up. "They've all gone through the Hospital portal, Mister Humphries. Senior Fancher is otherwise unhurt. I gave him a cool compress under a blindfold and sent him straight to Doctor Warburton. Senior Burns went with him. I expect Seniors Sorenson and Mallory to hand them off and return soon."
"Thank you, Nurse, for your care. Well done."
Alan returned to his desk. No point in porting to the hospital and getting in the way of the doctors. He had two classes to teach and some student counselling. After that was done, he could step over to the hospital.
So. Matthias had been called home.
His oldest son was probably on the same battlefield. Have to look him up in the Death List… there he was. The Angels were calling up their reserves. Alan added a note to warn whoever might have to Reap him. The boy wasn't an angel yet, but the Light would rejoice to see him. Reapers, protect your eyes.
The Angels were losing troops. I warned them, for all the good it did. Just like the Reapers…and the demons…would this war grind to a bloody stalemate like the human war was doing?
That left Matthias' wife and her twins in the Human Realm. Check with Will. Was that a violation of the contract between the Angels and the London Reapers, which specified protection of that family? Will had forbidden Alan any contact with them, a rule Alan had skirted for years – just checking, because he felt responsible. The second son was old enough to be in basic Army training. Probably the daughter was already training as a nurse or a driver. That would leave the wife alone in an area that was beginning to see vicious gang activity…no. The first thing Matthias would have done would have been to visit his family. If the genius loci had been slacking off, Matthias would have stuffed him into the rain barrel and reported upwards. It might not have done any good, though.
Report to Will anyway. He would have many uses for the knowledge. And he must check on the wife weekly, somehow, if he could duck away from his minders. It would be inexcusable for him to expose one of his bodyguards to Will's displeasure.
Bradshaw tapped on his door. "Senior Sorenson's back, sir. He's waiting to escort you to the Academy."
Alan picked up his notes and books. "Thank you." He joined Sorenson. They walked toward the portal. "After student counselling, I want to check on Charlie."
"No need, sir, he'll be home asleep. Doctor wants to see him in three days. When he's ready, Spectacles will give him a pair of tinted glasses. Mallory will give you the full report when you have time."
"I do have an appointment with Doctor Collins today, shouldn't take but a few minutes."
"You're clean. You can stop fretting."
"Thanks. I lost control of the Records for a moment when the angel attacked. How many now?"
"Fifty-three that I know of. Doubtless many more are hiding it. No reports from the Eastern Front or North Africa. They're keeping mum. We've been told to be silent. After this discussion, I shall be. Unless the bastards endanger a patient of mine."
"Have we any treatment at all?"
"No. We've been moving them into noncombatant roles; monitors, orderlies, portal management. A lot of them ask to drive ambulances or supply lorries. We don't allow that for the obvious reasons. Most of them agree when they think it through. They resist Admin and desk duties; denial. But I'm sure you remember. Research is talking about scything a volunteer and reincarnating him. But they don't know what they will get back, you see? Could be a blank slate, a person with no memories, having to start again at the Academy, years away from battle readiness. Or a body with no soul to animate it, the soul having been claimed. Or a revived Reaper whose curse persists in the new body."
"I was – "
"A special case. Not going to happen again. We asked. We can't replicate what was done to you. We need a way to treat large numbers quickly. But it isn't a disease. Vaccines won't do it. We need a way to break the curse without harming the patient. You're clever. You know people. Think about it."