Charles Stross - The Atrocity Archives

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THE ATROCITY ARCHIVES

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Charles Stross - The Atrocity Archives

CHARLIE STROSS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Authors write, but not in a vacuum. Firstly, I owe a debt of gratitude to the usual suspects--members of

my local writers workshop all--who suffered through first-draft reading hell and pointed out numerous

headaches that needed fixing. Paul Fraser of Spectrum SF applied far more editorial muscle than I had

any right to expect, in preparation for the original magazine serialization; likewise Marty Halpern of

Golden Gryphon Press, who made this longer edition possible. Finally, I stand on the shoulders of

giants. Three authors in particular made it possible for me to imagine this book and I salute you, H. P.

Lovecraft, Neal Stephenson, and Len Deighton.

Introduction

CHARLIE'S DEMONS

"THE ATROCITY ARCHIVE" IS A SCIENCE FICTION novel. Its form is that of a horror thriller with

lots of laughs, some of them uneasy. Its basic premise is that mathematics can be magic. Its lesser

premise is that if the world contains things that (as Pratchett puts it somewhere) even the dark is afraid

of, then you can bet that there'll be a secret government agency covering them up for our own good. That

last phrase isn't ironic; if people suspected for a moment that the only thing Lovecraft got wrong was to

underestimate the power and malignity of cosmic evil, life would become unbearable. If the secret got

out and (consequently) other things got in, life would become impossible. Whatever then walked the

Earth would not be life, let alone human. The horror of this prospect is, in the story, linked to the horrors

of real history. As in any good horror story, there are moments when you cannot believe that anyone

would dare put on paper the words you are reading. Not, in this case, because the words are gory, but

because the history is all too real. To summarise would spoil, and might make the writing appear to

make light of the worst of human accomplishments. It does not. Read it and see.

Charlie has written wisely and well in the Afterword about the uncanny parallels between the Cold War

thriller and the horror story. (Think, for a moment, what the following phrase would call to mind if you'd

never heard it before: "Secret intelligence.") There is, however, a third side to the story. Imagine a world

where speaking or writing words can literally and directly make things happen, where getting one of

those words wrong can wreak unbelievable havoc, but where with the right spell you can summon

immensely powerful agencies to work your will. Imagine further that this world is administered: there is

an extensive division of labour, among the magicians themselves and between the magicians and those

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Charles Stross - The Atrocity Archives

who coordinate their activity. It's bureaucratic, and also (therefore) chaotic, and it's full of people at

desks muttering curses and writing invocations, all beavering away at a small part of the big picture. The

coordinators, because they don't understand what's going on, are easy prey for smooth-talking preachers

of bizarre cults that demand arbitrary sacrifices and vanish with large amounts of money. Welcome to

the IT department.

It is Charlie's experience in working in and writing about the Information Technology industry that gives

him the necessary hands-on insight into the workings of the Laundry. For programming is a job where

Lovecraft meets tradecraft, all the time. The analyst or programmer has to examine documents with an

eye at once skeptical and alert, snatching and collating tiny fragments of truth along the way. His or her

sources of information all have their own agendas, overtly or covertly pursued. He or she has handlers

and superiors, many of whom don't know what really goes on at the sharp end. And the IT worker has to

know in their bones that if they make a mistake, things can go horribly wrong. Tension and cynicism are

constant companions, along with camaraderie and competitiveness. It's a lot like being a spy, or

necromancer. You don't get out much, and when you do it's usually at night.

Charlie gets out and about a lot, often in daylight. He has no demons. Like most people who write about

eldritch horrors, he has a cheerful disposition. Whatever years he has spent in the cellars haven't dimmed

his enthusiasm, his empathy, or his ability to talk and write with a speed, range of reference, and facility

that makes you want to buy the bastard a pint just to keep him quiet and slow him down in the morning,

before he gets too far ahead. I know: I've tried. It doesn't work.

I first encountered Charles Stross when I worked in IT myself. It was 1996 or thereabouts, when you

more or less had to work in IT to have heard about the Internet. (Yes, there was a time not long ago

when news about the existence of the Internet spread by word of mouth.) It dawned on me that the guy

who was writing sensible-but-radical posts to various newsgroups I hung out in was the same Charles

Stross who'd written two or three short stories I'd enjoyed in the British SF magazine Interzone: "Yellow

Snow," "Ship of Fools," and "Dechlorinating the Moderator" (all now available in his collection TOAST,

Cosmos Books, 2002).

"Dechlorinating the Moderator" is a science fiction story about a convention that has all the trappings of

a science fiction convention, but is (because this is the future) a science fact convention, of desktop and

basement high-energy fundamental physics geeks and geekettes. Apart from its intrinsic fun, the story

conveys the peculiar melancholy of looking back on a con and realising that no matter how much of a

good time you had, there was even more that you missed. (All right: as subtle shadings of emotion go

this one is a bit low on universality, but it was becoming familiar to me, having just started going to

cons.) "Ship of Fools" was about the Y2K problem (which as we all know turned out not to be a

problem, but BEGIN_RANT that was entirely thanks to programmers who did their jobs properly in the

first place back when only geeks and astronomers believed the twenty-first century would actually arrive

END_RANT) and it was also full of the funniest and most authentic-sounding insider yarns about IT I'd

ever read. This Stross guy sounded like someone I wanted to meet, maybe at a con. It turned out he lived

in Edinburgh. We were practically neighbours. I think I emailed him, and before too long he

materialised out of cyberspace and we had a beer and began an intermittent conversation that hasn't

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Charles Stross - The Atrocity Archives

stopped.

He had this great idea for a novel: "It's a techno-thriller! The premise is that Turing cracked the NP-

Completeness theorem back in the forties! The whole Cold War was really about preventing the

Singularity! The ICBMs were there in case godlike AIs ran amok!" (He doesn't really talk like this. But

that's how I remember it.) He had it all in his head. Lots of people do, but he (and here's a tip for aspiring

authors out there) actually wrote it. That one, Burn Time, the first of his novels I read, remains

unpublished--great concept, shaky execution--but the raw talent was there and so was the energy and

application and the astonishing range of reference. Since then he has written a lot more novels and short

stories. The short stories kept getting better and kept getting published. He had another great idea: "A

family saga about living through the Singularity! From the point of view of the cat!" That mutated into

the astonishing series that began with "Lobsters," published in Asimov's SF, June 2001. That story was

short-listed for three major SF awards: the Hugo, the Nebula, and the Sturgeon. Another, "Router," was

short-listed for the British Science Fiction Association (BSFA) Award. The fourth, "Halo," has been

short-listed for the Hugo.

Looking back over some of these short stories, what strikes me is the emergence of what might be called

the Stross sentence. Every writer who contributes to, or defines, a stage in the development of SF has

sentences that only they could write, or at least only they could write first. Heinlein's dilating door

opened up a new way to bypass explication by showing what is taken for granted; Zelazny's dune

buggies beneath the racing moons of Mars introduced an abrupt gear-change in the degrees of freedom

allowed in handling the classic material; Gibson's television sky and Ono-Sendai decks displayed the

mapping of virtual onto real spaces that has become the default metaphor of much of our daily lives. The

signature Stross sentence (and you'll come to recognise them as you read) represents just such an upward

jump in compression and comprehension, and one that we need to make sense not only of the stories, but

of the world we inhabit: a world sentenced to Singularity.

The novels kept getting better too, but not getting published, until quite recently and quite suddenly

three or four got accepted more or less at once. The only effect this has had on Charlie is that he has

written another two or three while these were in press. He just keeps getting faster and better, like

computers. But the first of his novels to be published is this one, and it's very good.

We'll be hearing, and reading, a lot more from him.

Read this now.

Ken MacLeod

West Lothian, UK

May 2003

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Charles Stross - The Atrocity Archives

THE ATROCITY ARCHIVE

ACTIVE SERVICE

GREEN SKY AT NIGHT; HACKER'S DELIGHT.

I'm lurking in the shrubbery behind an industrial unit, armed with a clipboard, a pager, and a pair of

bulbous night-vision goggles that drench the scenery in ghastly emerald tones. The bloody things make

me look like a train-spotter with a gas-mask fetish, and wearing them is giving me a headache. It's

humid and drizzling slightly, the kind of penetrating dampness that cuts right through waterproofs and

gloves. I've been waiting out here in the bushes for three hours so far, waiting for the last workaholic to

turn the lights out and go home so that I can climb in through a rear window. Why the hell did I ever say

"yes" to Andy? State-sanctioned burglary is a lot less romantic than it sounds--especially on standard

time-and-a-half pay.

(You bastard, Andy. "About that application for active service you filed last year. As it happens, we've

got a little job on tonight and we're short-staffed; could you lend a hand?")

I stamp my feet and blow on my hands. There's no sign of life in the squat concrete-and-glass block in

front of me. It's eleven at night and there are still lights burning in the cubicle hive: Don't these people

have a bed to go home to? I push my goggles up and everything goes dark, except the glow from those

bloody windows, like fireflies nesting in the empty eye sockets of a skull.

There's a sudden sensation like a swarm of bees throbbing around my bladder. I swear quietly and hike

up my waterproof to get at the pager. It's not backlit, so I have to risk a precious flash of torchlight to

read it. The text message says, MGR LVNG 5 MINS. I don't ask how they know that, I'm just grateful

that there's only five more minutes of standing here among the waterlogged trees, trying not to stamp my

feet too loudly, wondering what I'm going to say if the local snouts come calling. Five more minutes of

hiding round the back of the QA department of Memetix (UK) Ltd.--subsidiary of a multinational based

in Menlo Park, California--then I can do the job and go home. Five more minutes spent hiding in the

bushes down on an industrial estate where the white heat of technology keeps the lights burning far into

the night, in a place where the nameless horrors don't suck your brains out and throw you to the Human

Resources department--unless you show a deficit in the third quarter, or forget to make a blood sacrifice

before the altar of Total Quality Management.

Somewhere in that building the last late-working executive is yawning and reaching for the door remote

of his BMW. The cleaners have all gone home; the big servers hum blandly in their air-conditioned

womb, nestled close to the service core of the office block. All I have to do is avoid the security guard

and I'm home free.

A distant motor coughs into life, revs, and pulls out of the landscaped car park in a squeal of wet tires.

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Charles Stross - The Atrocity Archives

As it fades into the night my pager vibrates again: GO GO GO. I edge forward.

No motion-triggered security lights flash on. There are no Rottweiler attack dogs, no guards in coal-

scuttle helmets: this ain't that kind of movie, and I'm no Arnold Schwarzenegger. (Andy told me: "If

anyone challenges you, smile, stand up straight, and show them your warrant card--then phone me. I'll

handle it. Getting the old man out of bed to answer a clean-up call will earn you a black mark, but a

black mark's better than a cracked skull. Just try to remember that Croxley Industrial Estate isn't Novaya

Zemlya, and getting your head kicked in isn't going to save the world from the forces of evil.")

I squish through the damp grass and find the designated window. Like the briefing said, it's shut but not

locked. A good tug and the window hinges out toward me. It's inconveniently high up, a good four feet

above the concrete gutter. I pull myself up and over the sill, sending a tiny avalanche of disks scuttering

across the floor. The room is ghostly green except for the bright hot spots of powered-down monitors

and fans blowing air from hot CPU cases. I stumble forward over a desk covered in piles of kipple,

wondering how in hell the owner is going to fail to notice my great muddy boot-print between the

obviously confidential documents scattered next to a keyboard and a stone-cold coffee mug. Then I'm on

the floor in the QA department, and the clock is ticking.

The pager vibrates again. SITREP. I pull my mobile out of my breast pocket and dial a three-digit

number, then put it back again. Just letting them know I've arrived and everything's running smoothly.

Typical Laundry--they'll actually include the phone bill in the event log to prove I called in on schedule

before they file it somewhere secret. Gone are the days of the impromptu black-bag job . . .

The offices of Memetix (UK) Ltd. are a typical cubicle hell: anonymous beige fabric partitions dividing

up little slices of corporate life. The photocopier hulks like an altar beneath a wall covered with

devotional scriptures--the company's code of conduct, lists of compulsory employee self-actualization

training courses, that sort of thing. I glance around, hunting cubicle D14. There's a mass of Dilbert

cartoons pinned to the side of his partition, spoor of a mildly rebellious mind-set; doubtless middle

managers prowl round the warren before any visit from the upper echelons, tearing down such images

that signal dissent. I feel a minor shiver of sympathy coming on: Poor bastard, what must it be like to be

stuck here in the warren of cells at the heart of the new industrial revolution, never knowing where the

lightning's going to strike next?

There's a desk with three monitors on it: two large but otherwise ordinary ones, and a weird-ass piece of

machinery that looks at least a decade old, dredged out of the depths of the computer revolution. It's

probably an old Symbolics Lisp machine or something. It tweaks my antique gland, but I don't have time

to rubberneck; the security guard's due to make another round in just sixteen minutes. There are books

leaning in crazy piles and drifts on either side: Knuth, Dijkstra, Al-Hazred, other less familiar names. I

pull his chair back and sit down, wrinkling my nose. In one of the desk drawers something's died and

gone to meet its maker.

Keyboard: check. Root account: I pull out the filched S/Key smartcard the Laundry sourced from one of

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Charles Stross - The Atrocity Archives

Memetix's suppliers and type the response code to the system's challenge. (One-time passwords are a

bitch to crack; once again, give thanks to the Laundry's little helpers.) Then I'm logged in and trusted

and it's time to figure out just what the hell I'm logged in to.

Malcolm--whose desk I sit at, and whose keyboard I pollute--is running an ant farm: there are dead

computers under the desk, scavenged for parts, and a dubious Frankenstein server--guts open to the

elements--humming like a generator beside it. For a moment I hunt around in panic, searching for silver

pentacles and glowing runes under the desktop--but it's clean. Logged in, I find myself in a maze of

twisty little automounted filesystems, all of them alike. Fuck shit curse dammit, I recite under my breath;

it was never like this in Cast a Deadly Spell. I pull out the phone and dial.

"Capital Laundry Services, how may we help you?"

"Give me a hostname and target directory, I'm in but I'm lost."

"One sec . . . try 'auto slash share slash fs slash scooby slash netapp slash user slash home slash malcolm

slash uppercase-R slash catbert slash world-underscore-domination slash manifesto.' "

I type so fast my fingers trip over each other. There's a faint clicking as the server by the desk mounts

scooby's gigantic drive array and scratches its read/write heads, looking for what has got to be one of the

most stupidly named files anywhere on the company's intranet.

"Hold on . . . yup, got it." I view the sucker and it's there in plaintext: Some Notes Toward a Proof of

Polynomial Completeness in Hamiltonian Networks. I page through the text rapidly, just skimming;

there's no time to give it my full in-depth attention, but it looks genuine. "Bingo." I can feel an

unpleasant slimy layer of sweat in the small of my back. "I've got it. Bye for now."

"Bye yourself." I shut the phone and stare at the paper. Just for a moment, I hesitate . . . What I'm here to

do isn't fair, is it? The imp of perversity takes over: I bang out a quick command, mailing the

incriminating file to a not-so-dead personal account. (Figure I'll read it later.) Then it's time to nuke the

server. I unmount the netapp drive and set fire to it with a bitstorm of low-level reformatting. If Malcolm

wants his paper back he'll have to enlist GCHQ and a scanning tunneling microscope to find it under all

the 0xDEADBEEF spammed across the hard disk platters.

My pager buzzes again. SITREP. I hit three more digits on the phone. Then I edge out of the cubicle and

scramble back across the messy desk and out into the cool spring night, where I peel off those damned

latex gloves and waggle my fingers at the moon.

I'm so elated that I don't even remember the stack of disks I sent flying until I'm getting off the night bus

at home. And by then, the imp of perversity is chuckling up his sleeve.

I'M FAST ASLEEP IN BED WHEN THE CELLPHONE rings.

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It's in my jacket pocket, where I left it last night, and I thrash around on the floor for a bit while it chirps

merrily. "Hello?"

"Bob?"

It's Andy. I try not to groan. "What time is it?"

"It's nine-thirty. Where are you?"

"In bed. What's--"

"Thought you were going to be in at the debrief? When can you come in?"

"I'm not feeling too wonderful. Got home at about two-thirty. Let me think . . . eleven good enough?"

"It'll have to be." He sounds burned. Well, Andy wasn't the one freezing his butt off in the woods last

night, was he? "See you there." The implicit or else doesn't need enunciating. Her Majesty's Extra-Secret

Service has never really been clear on the concept of flexitime and sensible working hours.

I shamble into the bathroom and stare at the thin rind of black mold growing around the window as I

piss. I'm alone in the house; everyone else is either out--working--or out--gone for good. (That's out, as

in working, for Pinky and the Brain; out, as in fucked off, for Mhari.) I pick up my senescent toothbrush

and perform the usual morning ritual. At least the heating's on. Downstairs in the kitchen I fill a

percolator with nuclear-caffeinated grounds and nudge it onto the gas ring. I figure I can make it into the

Laundry by eleven and still have time to wake up first. I'll need to be alert for that meeting. Did last

night go off properly, or not? Now that I can't do anything about them I remember the disks.

Nameless dread is all very well when you're slumped in front of the TV watching a slasher movie, but it

plays havoc with your stomach when you drop half a pint of incredibly strong black coffee on it in the

space of fifteen minutes. Brief nightmarish scenarios flit through my head, in order of severity: written

reprimands, unemployment, criminal prosecution for participating in a black-bag job for which

authorisation is unaccountably retroactively withdrawn; worst of all, coming home to find Mhari curled

up on the living room sofa again. Scratch that latter vision; the short-lived sadness gives way to a deeper

sense of relief, tempered by a little loneliness. The loneliness of the long-distance spook? Damn, I need

to get my head in order. I'm no James Bond, with a sexy KGB minx trying to seduce me in every hotel

room. That's about the first thing they drum into you at Capital Laundry Services ("Washes cleaner than

clean!"): life is not a spy movie, work is not romantic, and there's nothing particularly exciting about the

job. Especially when it involves freezing your balls off in a corporate shrubbery at eleven o'clock on a

rainy night.

Sometimes I regret not having taken the opportunity to study accountancy. Life could be so much more

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fun if I'd listened to the right recruiting spiel at the university milk round . . . but I need the money, and

maybe one of these days they'll let me do something interesting. Meanwhile I'm here in this job because

all the alternatives are worse.

So I go to work.

THE LONDON UNDERGROUND IS FAMOUS FOR APPARENTLY believing that human beings go

about this world owning neither kidney nor colon. Not many people know that there's precisely one

public toilet in Mornington Crescent station. It isn't signposted, and if you ask for it the staff will shake

their heads; but it's there all the same, because we asked for it.

I catch the Metropolitan line to Euston Square--sharing a squalid rattle-banging cattle car with a herd of

bored commuters--then switch to the Northern line. At the next stop I get out, shuffle up the staircase, go

into the gents, and step into the right-hand rear stall. I yank up on the toilet handle instead of down, and

the back wall opens like a big thick door (plumbing and all), ushering me into the vestibule. It's all a bit

like a badly funded B-movie remake of some sixties Hollywood spy thriller. A couple of months ago I

asked Boris why we bothered with it, but he just chuckled and told me to ask Angleton--meaning,

"Bugger off."

The wall closes behind me and a hidden solenoid bolt unlocks the stall door: the toilet monster consumes

another victim. I put my hand in the ID scanner, collect my badge from the slot next to it, and step

across the red line on the threshold. It's another working day at Capital Laundry Services, discreet

cleaning agents to the government.

And guess who's in hot water?

First stop: my office. If you can call it an office--it's a sort of niche between a row of lockers and a herd

of senile filing cabinets, into which the Facilities gnomes have jammed a plywood desk and a swivel

chair with a damaged gas strut. I drop my coat and jacket on the chair and my computer terminal

whistles at me: YOU HAVE MAIL. No shit, Sherlock, I always have mail. It's an existential thing: if I

don't have mail it would mean that something is very wrong with the world, or maybe I've died and gone

to bureaucratic hell. (I'm a child of the wired generation, unlike some of the suits hereabouts who have

their secretaries print everything out and dictate their replies for an audio-typist to send.) There is also a

cold, scummy cup of over-milked coffee on my desk; Marcia's been over-efficient again. A yellow Post-

it note curls reproachfully atop one of my keyboards: MEETING 9:30AM CT ROOM B4. Hell and

damnation, why didn't I remember?

I go to meeting room B4.

There's a red light showing so I knock and wave my badge before entering, just in case Security is

paying attention. Inside, the air is blue; it looks like Andy's been chain-smoking his foul French fags for

the past couple of hours. "Yo," I say. "Everyone here?"

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Boris the Mole looks at me stonily. "You're late."

Harriet shakes her head. "Never mind." She taps her papers into a neat stack. "Had a good sleep, did

we?"

I pull out a chair and slump into it. "I spent six hours being one with a shrubbery last night. There were

three cloudbursts and a rain of small and very confused frogs."

Andy stubs out his cigarette and sits up. "Well, now we're here . . ." He looks at Boris enquiringly. Boris

nods. I try to keep a straight face: I hate it when the old guard start playing stiff upper lip.

"Jackpot." Andy grins at me. I nearly have a heart attack on the spot. "You're coming to the pub tonight,

Bob. Drinks on me. That was a straight A for results, C-plus for fieldwork, overall grade B for

execution."

"Uh, I thought I made a mess going in--"

"No. If it hadn't been a semicovert you'd have had to burn your shoes, but apart from that--well. Zero

witnesses, you found the target, there's nothing left, and Dr. Denver is about to find himself downsized

and in search of a job somewhere less sensitive." He shakes his head. "Not a lot more to say, really."

"But the security guard could have--"

"The security guard was fully aware there was going to be a burglary, Bob. He wasn't going to move an

inch, much less see anything untoward or sound the alarm, lest spooks come out of the woodwork and

find him crunchy and good with ketchup."

"It was a set-up?" I say disbelievingly.

Boris nods at me. "Is a good set-up."

"Was it worth it?" I ask. "I mean, I just wiped out some poor bastard's last six months of work--"

Boris sighs mournfully and shoves an official memo at me. It's got a red-and-yellow chevron-striped

border and the phrase MOST SECRET DESTROY BEFORE READING stamped across its cover. I

open it and look at the title page: Some Notes Toward a Proof of Polynomial Completeness in

Hamiltonian Networks. And a subtitle: Formal Correctness Report. One of the departmental theorem-

proving oracles has been busy overnight. "He duplicated the Turing result?"

"Most regrettably," says Boris.

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