of the bloody year.
“I can’t imagine,” Talbot replied. “But you should take heart from what you did. The destruction of Alexandru will save hundreds of lives. I’m sure that doesn’t feel like any consolation at the moment, but hopefully in time you’ll be able to understand that you did something remarkable. And if there’s anything I can do to help, please do let me know.”
“I will,” Jamie replied, his voice thick with confusion. “Thank you.”
Talbot smiled, then accelerated away down the corridor, leaving Jamie standing as still as a statue, his face wearing the look of someone who is not completely sure that what has just happened to them was actually real.
Since that one brief conversation, Jamie had been fascinated by Professor Talbot; so much so that Larissa, the only person to whom he had described the conversation, had started to use a different word.
Obsessed, thought Jamie. She says I’m obsessed with him.
He could understand why she might think so. In the week that had passed since the first Zero Hour meeting, Jamie had asked almost every Operator he had spoken to what they knew about Professor Talbot and the Lazarus Project. The answers he had received had ranged from incredulous demands that he not ask such questions, to wild theories about what was taking place in the Project’s sealed laboratories on Level F.
“They’re cloning Operators,” one earnest civilian contractor had insisted. “They’re going to bring back Van Helsing, and Quincey Harker, and all the others. They’re going to declare war on the vamps.”
Jamie had scoffed, but continued to ask the question, undeterred. Some Operators claimed that it was a weapons project, devising new ways of destroying vampires, while one member of the Science Division swore blind that the Lazarus Project was building a microwave emitter tuned to an electromagnetic frequency that only existed inside the brains of vampires. When it was complete, the scientist promised, all that would be required was the push of a single button, and every vampire in the world would be destroyed, instantly. Jamie asked tens of men and women, and got tens of different replies, leading him to the only conclusion that could be rationally drawn.
Nobody has a clue what they’re doing down there. Not a clue.
“Zero Hour Task Force convened, January 19th,” said Admiral Seward. His personal secretary, a small, plump man named Marlow, had positioned himself a deferential distance behind the Director and now began to take minutes, his chubby fingers flying silently across the keys of a portable console. “Second meeting. All members present.”
The Director looked at the seven men gathered round the table. “Gentlemen,” he continued. “Operational data since the last meeting is as follows. Vampire activity remains heightened, but stable, as do sightings and incidents involving the public that require our involvement. Patrol logs indicate that incidents of the graffiti that was discussed last week continue to occur, in increasing numbers.”
Seward nodded to Marlow, who punched a series of keys on his console. The huge high-definition screen that covered the entire wall behind the Director powered up. A series of photographs filled the frame; the same two words, in tens of different colours and handwritings, printed and sprayed on walls and roads and bridges.
HE RISES
Jamie felt a chill run through him as he looked at the photos. The two words represented the Department’s greatest fear, the moment the Task Force had been created to prevent.
Zero Hour.
The vampires knew what was coming, just as surely as Blacklight did; the graffiti was proof of that. But more than that, it seemed to be directly addressed to them, left at the scenes of crimes that only they would be called to.
It seemed to be a challenge.
No, that’s not it, thought Jamie. They’re not challenging us. They’re mocking us. They don’t think we can stop Dracula from rising. And they might well be right.
“What are our vamp contacts saying?” asked Cal Holmwood.
“Nothing,” replied Paul Turner. “Less than that in fact. Most of them have disappeared, and the ones that haven’t won’t talk. They know what’s coming.”
“We should stake them all,” said the Operator from the Intelligence Division. “What use are they if they won’t talk?”
“Absolutely none, Mr Brennan,” agreed Turner. “But still more than they would be dead. Circumstances change.”
“I don’t get it,” pressed Brennan. “If Dracula rises, if it’s as bad as everyone thinks, they’re going to lose everything too. Why don’t they help us stop it?”
“Because they don’t think we can,” replied Turner, evenly. “Stop it, I mean. And whatever may happen if Dracula rises, the one thing they can be sure of is that helping us is not going to make them popular.”
Operator Brennan stared at Turner with a look that suggested he had more he wanted to say, but he held his tongue.
“Fine,” said Admiral Seward. “Paul, keep at them, but I don’t think you’ll have much luck, as you said. I spoke to the SPC this morning and they assured me they’re doing all they can, so let’s—”
“All they can?” said Jamie, without thinking. “Apart from not losing the remains in the first place, you mean?”
Seven pairs of eyes swung in his direction, and Jamie swallowed hard.
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just frustrating. Nobody knew they had them, so there was nothing we could do to make sure they were safe.”
“I knew the SPC had the remains,” said Seward, coolly. “As did the other Directors. What would you have had us do?”
Jamie looked at the Director for a long moment, then dropped his eyes. “I don’t know, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Seward’s face softened. “I don’t like it any more than you, Lieutenant Carpenter. Clearly, there are lessons to be learnt from what has happened, for all of us. But we have to play the hand we’ve been dealt, to the best of our abilities. So, on that note, and because I’d like to keep this meeting as short as humanly possible, if there is nothing—”
“I don’t like it either,” interrupted Operator Brennan, scowling at Jamie. “I don’t like any part of this. And I still don’t see why some kid who isn’t even old enough to wear the uniform gets a say in this just because his surname is Carpenter.”
Jamie felt his face flush with anger. He opened his mouth to reply, saw Seward do the same and was surprised when someone beat them both to it.
“Mr Brennan,” said Professor Talbot. “Have you ever seen a Priority Level 1 vampire?”
“What does that have to—”
“This young man,” continued Talbot, glancing at Jamie, “has not only seen one, but faced it down and destroyed it. Compared to every vampire you have ever seen, Operator Brennan, Alexandru Rusmanov might as well have been a different species; a natural disaster made flesh, like a hurricane, and Mr Carpenter destroyed him. He is the only living soul to have destroyed a Priority
