GP Services (and other companies) have been lobbying Congress to privatize the US Postal Service for years now. There are any number of beneficiaries: the private parcel carrier services, the phone and cable networks and internet service providers, and the obvious corporate interests who can do without the nonprofit competition. And there are any number of politicians who can make political hay by being seen to cut government spending on a basic infrastructure service that doesn’t turn a profit and that isn’t able to defend itself politically. Nothing has officially happened yet—the inertia of the US government is astonishing—but it’s obvious that the fix is in: too many people want the post office to die. And so they’re already chewing lumps off the periphery of the still-living organism.
Taking on the outsourced contract to deliver the mail is one thing, but there are related tasks that can’t be so easily privatized. The US Postal Service Inspectorate’s role is mandated by Act of Congress, so someone has to do it. But a private corporate mail service is something else, and they’re monitored by Homeland Security. So as a cost-cutting measure the Inspectorate is one of the first units to be axed, and its residual assets transferred to corporate contractors with a security clearance. Eighty percent of its staff are downsized and the remainder, the folks who manage the remaining assets, are replaced by private sector contractors employed by GP Services. And of course GP Services supplies contractors to the OPA.
And then there was one fewer agency standing between the public and the things that want to eat their souls.
*
Monday morning:
Raymond Schiller is a traditionalist in many ways, both in business and in faith. Not for him the modern conveniences of teleconferencing, hot-desking, and virtual workspaces: he insists on in-person meetings with his subordinates, on emails printed out and presented to him for a response dictated and transcribed by one of his handmaids, and in office suites that can be swept for bugs and secured against surveillance by the agents of apostasy.
The GP Services headquarters in the UK is located in a windowless warehouse-like shed near the cargo terminal at Heathrow. There is a wilderness of rectilinear roads, surveilled by cameras and patrolled by armed police, entirely within the perimeter security cordon of Europe’s largest airport. It’s inconveniently far from the center of the British capital by ground transport, but Schiller’s serviced apartment is close by Docklands airport and a charter helicopter is waiting to whisk him across London in privacy and comfort—and if security is a priority, a major airport is the next best thing to a military installation.
Schiller travels with Anneka and his new PA, Bernadette, who is to be Anneka’s replacement once she starts her assignment elsewhere. Bernadette is a bubbly, outgoing Ulster redhead whose enthusiasm has not yet been moderated by the induction into the Inner Temple that is her destiny. She is a member of the Outer Temple of the Golden Promise Ministries, it is true, and is sincere in her dedication to helping bring about the Second Coming, but it is one thing to worship the True God and something quite different to nurture a graft of the True God’s flesh in place of your private parts, so Schiller and Anneka are circumspect in her presence.
As they transfer to the limousine, Anneka checks his phone for messages. “Tom Bradwell has arrived and is in conference room B,” she says tonelessly. “James MacDonald is on his way. Mr. Carroll from Q4 Services is incoming according to his assistant. The first of today’s meetings should start on schedule.” She continues in similar vein for a minute. All those named are senior account managers for companies that specialize in tendering for and providing private sector services to various British government agencies. They’re here for a briefing and then a day of discussions about how they can work with Schiller’s organization on the bid he’s assembling.
“Are there any hitches?” Schiller asks.
“I’ll check for no-shows and chase everyone up once you go in! It’s no problem, really,” Bernadette volunteers. The limo door swings shut, locking out the throbbing of helicopter rotors and the smell of jet fuel. “If Anneka has her phone I can text her updates ahead of each—”
Schiller makes a cutting gesture. “There will be no phones allowed in the meeting,” he tells her. It’s an observation, not censorious, but her face stiffens all the same. “Security,” he says gently.
“Is that a problem?” Bernadette asks nervously. Anneka glances at Raymond, lizard-eyed. Is this one going to be trouble, Father? she thinks at him, with an unthought subtext of fingers tightening around an unprotected throat. Do you want me to …
Schiller smiles. That won’t be necessary, he replies. He intends to Elevate Bernadette sooner rather than later—once his Lord has regrown enough body segments. Indeed, now he is in London he intends to Elevate handmaids as fast as the flesh can manage. “We have rivals,” he tells Bernadette. “Also, some elements of the security services may not approve of us purging the ungodly.” Bernadette nods, comprehension visibly dawning, and Schiller feels Anneka relax beside him. She’s willing to kill for the faith—perhaps too willing, he thinks privately. Killing your own recruits is not a good long-term growth strategy.
The limousine drives through an automated security gate, then around the side of the warehouse and into a loading bay. The roller door lowers itself to the ground before an inner door rises to admit the car. As their driver inches forward, the signal on Anneka’s phone drops away; the entire building is a Faraday cage, to exclude wireless signals. Less visibly, it’s also protected by a security grid: an occult circuit that channels an information flow that subtly corrupts remote viewers and repels extradimensional summonings—with one very specific exception. There are CCTV cameras and motion detectors, and security guards patrol the area with walkie-talkies and paintball guns. Which are loaded with a type of ammunition that would cause extreme consternation if it were to become known to the Laundry.
Schiller and his assistants leave the car and walk across the cavernous floor to an office block that fills half the warehouse. The elevator whisks them straight to the conference rooms on the third floor. Schiller marches into conference room B with a confident smile on his face. Three of his guests are already waiting. “Gentlemen! Welcome to GP Security Systems. I’m glad you could make it at such short notice. Anneka, do you have the briefing packs for our guests?” His handmaid is already reaching into her briefcase for the slim document wallets. “This is the deployment plan for our new UK venture. I’d like to stress that this is highly confidential, and extremely urgent: elements of it need to be actioned no later than close of business today, and I expect none of you will be going home tonight—possibly not for a few nights, although if everything goes to plan we should be fully up and running by Friday, with enterprise-level operations ready to open for business the following Monday. So once you’ve had a few minutes to look at it, I’ll take you through the details point by point, answer any questions, then you can go back to your departments and set the wheels in motion this afternoon.”