Chapter Text
In its day, Gateway East had been the busiest monorail station in the City. Architects all over the world had bestowed praise and awards on it; engineers had admired the practicality of its layout. At any hour of the day or night, its platforms would have been filled with the bustle of citizens going about their business. Now, in the age of T-Mat, it was a barely-used anachronism.
Zoë Heriot walked briskly along platform 15, sparing the once-impressive architecture not a glance or a thought. She was too busy wondering who it was who had summoned her here. The request from 'Transient Staff Services' for a few days of her time had been couched in the most polite language, but either it or some accompanying message had caused her employers to move with greater rapidity and decisiveness than she'd thought them capable of. Obviously requests from these people, if ignored, quickly became demands or worse.
For most of its length, the platform was covered by the station's colossal roof – another one-time architectural wonder, curving overhead like a wave, and now a substrate for algae, dirt, and the feral pigeons which no advance of technology could eliminate. But at its very end the platform protruded into the open air, and as Zoë emerged into full daylight, she saw two people waiting for her.
She closed the distance between them quickly, her eyes fixed on them. One was a woman, apparently a few years older than herself – slim, blonde and unsmiling, dressed in an uncomfortable-looking business suit not unlike Zoë's own. The man beside her was also wearing a suit, and a similar look suggesting he wasn't at ease in it. His hair was grey, though by his face he was no older than his mid-forties.
As Zoë came to a halt, the man checked his watch.
"Doctor Heriot," he said. "Dead on time. Let me introduce myself. I am Richard Stanley, Vice-President of Operations. This is Ms. Newman."
Zoë shook hands with both, none the wiser.
"Now," the man continued. "We're very pleased that you've agreed to work for us. A situation needs to be filled as a matter of some urgency, and we believe you to be ideally qualified for the post."
Ms. Newman smoothly took up the story.
"It's quite simple," she said. "You may have heard of Sir Charles Harwood."
"In general terms," Zoë replied. "A wealthy businessman, with a reputation as a recluse."
"Just so. For the past few years, he has devoted his time and considerable resources to collecting items associated with the occult. Many of these items are rare books, and by now he has accumulated a sizeable library. Your task will be to catalogue this library."
Zoë hadn't been sure what to expect, but it certainly hadn't been that. She opened her mouth, but before she could ask anything Ms. Newman had carried straight on.
"For the duration of the contract, you will live in quarters provided by Sir Charles and work such hours as he deems appropriate. Any property you take with you will be confiscated when you commence your duties, and returned to you when you finally depart – including, I'm afraid, your clothes. Sir Charles will provide you with suitable clothing. Either you or he may terminate the agreement at any time, with no prior notice.
"Do you have any questions?"
Zoë certainly did, but she decided to start with the least important first.
"What's all this about being provided with clothes?" she asked.
"Sir Charles is, shall we say, eccentric. Several of the terms under which he has engaged us appear to be to rule out the possibility of industrial espionage. Thus nothing is allowed which may conceal any form of recording device. All his staff, temporary or permanent, wear a standard uniform. It isn't indecent or anything like that – it's pretty much the same as what you're wearing now – but it is a requirement."
Zoë nodded.
"Did you have any other questions?" Ms. Newman continued.
It took Zoë a few seconds to try to think of a diplomatic way of asking. In the end, she decided to throw caution to the winds.
"You aren't telling me everything," she said. "There's got to be more to this. I'm certainly not the only person qualified to catalogue a library, and if that's all the job entailed you wouldn't– well, you wouldn't go to all this trouble."
Ms. Newman looked sideways at Mr. Stanley, who smiled thinly.
"I can't stop you imagining things, Doctor Heriot," he said. "But I assure you, you are the best qualified person for this job. As my colleague has said, Sir Charles has somewhat exacting requirements. Your duties are exactly as have been described, and the compensation is, I am told, generous. If I might make an unofficial suggestion, it is this: Keep your eyes open."
"If you need to contact us, send a shortcode to this channel," Ms. Newman added. She held up a business card. "With your memory, you shouldn't need to make a note of it."
"True," Zoë said.
"So, will you take the job?" Mr. Stanley asked.
Zoë nodded again. She still suspected that these people wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, but that was beside the point by now. There was a mystery here. They wanted her to be on the lookout for something. They weren't saying what, perhaps because they themselves didn't know. Her curiosity was engaged, and she'd never had been able to leave an unanswered question alone.
"I will," she said out loud.
"Splendid. Now, there are just a few formalities..."
In a matter of minutes, the formalities had been completed, and Zoë was walking back down the platform. The two representatives of Transient Staff Services remained where they were.
"Sir," Ms. Newman said, after a while. "Are you sure she's the right person for the job? I don't doubt that she's clever, but she's an amateur. Wouldn't one of our people be better?"
"A fair point, Captain," was the reply. "Moreover, for all her excellent qualities, Dr. Heriot is much too honest to be an effective spy. Anyone in the household with the slightest reason to suspect her– Still, it could all be a mare's nest. In which case, we can send her back to her day job none the wiser."
Ms. Newman made no reply.