If It Looks Like a Duck and Quacks Like a Duck It's Still Not Nepotism
The office of Sir Martin Sloane (Cassie Sloane’s father)
Whitehall, London
“Hello, Cassandra,” Sir Martin said when she answered the phone. As the principal private secretary to the prime minister, he was a very important and busy man, but always made time for his daughter, even when he didn’t have to call her, as he did that day.
“Daddy!” she said happily, dada had been they first word out of her mouth as a baby and he’d always be daddy to her, no matter how old she got, she was an only child who’d somehow avoided being a spoiled brat, even though she’d been daddy’s little princess growing up.
“I was talking to your old don, Freddie Pilkington today, he said that they’d love to have the world’s leading expert on Celtic mythology visiting, perhaps taking up a permanent position there.”
“You’re trying to protect me, like you always do, Daddy. but I’ve known that this day was coming for a long time, and now I’m in the right place to do something about it, I won’t run away.”
“I can’t say I wasn’t expecting that answer,” he said ruefully, “on an unrelated subject, you were right about this Callum Cooper chap, the briefing says he is indeed genuinely luckier than the norm, but, and forgive the language, they describe him as being a dick, I really must have a word with whomever wrote the précis.”
Cassie laughed at that, “There are always drawbacks.”
“And an attitude like that is why we want you to take over as head of the test and field trials section on the second floor, effective immediately.”
“That’s Mr Crowhurst’s purview,” she said nervously.
“Although he is still in overall charge of the department, you will have autonomy over your section. I will call him personally to inform him of the decision after we finish. If he doesn’t like it, the prime minister has authorised me to give him the choice of either being demoted or retiring early on a reduced pension.”
“Is that fair? I know that he’s a bit pompous…”
“Look, Cassandra,” he snapped, interrupting her, “the last time we spoke you told me that we were facing something that would make the number of lives lost in both world wars trivial by comparison. And people like Crowhurst, who manage their departments by memorising the rulebook, are of no use in a scenario that requires an innovative approach. ”
“But people will think I only got the promotion because I’m your daughter.”
“We need someone who can think on their feet,” he said in a gentler tone, “and I have never met anybody better than you at doing that, or cleverer than you are and even though I am immensely proud of you, Cassandra, I wouldn’t have recommended you for such a vitally important role if you were not the best person for the job, so let people think what they will, your performance will prove them all wrong.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“You never waited for my permission before,” he laughed.
“I know the department was your idea and how hard you must have had to work to make it a reality, but what made someone as practical and down to earth as you believe in luck in the first place?”
“Actually, I didn’t have to work that hard, the military all over the world have been conducting paranormal activity research since World War Two, beginning in Nazi Germany, to be precise. But to answer your question; it started a long time ago, back in my army days, we were under heavy fire when a piece of shrapnel came close enough to singe the skin off of my nose before burning a hole in my sergeant’s brain. That is what is colloquially known as a wake-up call.”
“And now you want luck to be the weapon,” She said, as disapprovingly as she could bring herself to be.
“What I want is to save lives, have you ever considered what would happen if a foreign power weaponised luck first? Imagine the destruction even a battalion of enemy soldiers with enhanced luck could cause: our guns misfiring, vehicles breaking down, artillery missing their targets, the possibilities are virtually endless.”
“As long as it’s understood that once this is over, if we’re all still alive, that is, any weapons research is conducted ethically, then I accept.”
“Excellent,” he said, deciding that was a argument for a different day, “now, there are a few salient points you should be made aware of: all social media platforms, streaming services and TV channels will by now, be carrying localised warnings that, as of sunset this evening, martial law will into effect in the Edinburgh area…”
“Daddy!”
“I don’t like it either, Cassandra, but it’s out of my hands so let me finish, please,” he said, adopting a stricter tone, “the same media outlets will announce a dusk to dawn curfew and include a list of essential businesses that will be allowed to remain open, the rest with either close for the duration, or be requisitioned for reasons of national security.”
“People will be scared, when they run around panicking will they shoot them as rioters?” she said.
“General Alcott-Browne, who has been placed in charge, assures me that none of his troops will open fire except in self-defence, even then they are being issued with plastic bullets and bean bag rounds to quell disturbances in a non-lethal manner, also, checkpoints are being placed all around the city, realistically there’s no way to stop the odd person escaping, here or there, but it should prevent a panicked mass-exodus.”
“Of course it will, telling people that they’re trapped in a city with terrorists (if that’s still the cover story) who can murder them at any moment will definitely calm them down,” she said sarcastically.
“You can take that up with the general, it was his idea, in the meantime a courier will be with you within the hour with full authorisation, including a pass to allow you to travel freely during the hours of curfew.
After she hung up the phone she sat stunned, she’d thought about the awakening of Morrigan every day, a timer ticking down in her head, ever since she’d discovered the translation of Agnes daughter of Angus’s prophecies in a musty secondhand bookstore twenty years ago, when she was eighteen.
But now that it was staring her in the face it was a very different matter. All she wanted to do was take up her father’s offer, and run away and hide in Oxford, even though she knew it would only buy her a few months, maybe a year at most.
As a Celt (someone of Celtic descent) regardless of where she hid, Morrigan would eventually make her a slave and use her to massacre thousands of innocent people, and she had to destroy her before that happened, or die trying.