January 14, 1985. Cabinet Office, Briefing Room A (COBRA), 70 Whitehall, London.
There are three people in the room. One, a woman, middle-aged, perhaps in her early sixties but, in her make up and what is obviously an expensive and time-consuming coiffure, looking slightly younger. She wears a cornflower blue skirt suit, not particularly pretty but designed to look professional and authoritative.
The second person sits facing her across the table. He wears a naval uniform; those who understood such things would identify his rank as that of commander. His upper arm also bears the official insignia of DICE, the unified intelligence operation that replaced the MI departments in the early 60s. The man has a simple moustache, no beard, and neatly combed short black hair. His uniform cap is on the table, beside and in front of him, and next to two brown document folders.
The third person present, another woman, stands in a corner of the room. The two others present are aware of her, but do not consider her a participant in the meeting. This woman, far younger than the first, wears a tight black jumpsuit, made of some strange material. The suit isn’t revealing, but seems - efficient - like a space suit or some hyper modern biker outfit. Along the arms, and down the side of the suit are thick white lines. The effect would be considered slimming, if she needed it. This woman has no hair to coiffure. Her face and hands are blue and her eyes are yellow.
The man coughs, a gesture meant to start the meeting. He pushes one of the folders across the table, to the older woman. At the top of the folder is written: “Delta 20 Indigo: Eyes Only”.
The man speaks. ”We’re moving Anderson. There’s been … chatter. On the telephone system, intercepted mail, that sort of thing. We have a new lockdown in Northumberland, one of the old RAF bases. We’ll need cover.”
The older woman nods. The man continues. ”I’ve taken the liberty of activating Golf Hotel Wave One. We won’t have them on the run, but we’ll have them waiting nearby. Just in case.”
The woman across the table opens the folder, picks up each sheet and reads it. Occasionally she writes notes in the margins. The man waits, patiently. The woman closes the folder.
”Do you think Wave One is ready, Commander Hawthorne?”
He nods.
She speaks again.
”One of them is American. Will that be a problem?”
Hawthorne shakes his head. ”I don’t think so. We put him through a battery of psychological tests. I wouldn’t say he passed - it’s not a pass/fail thing. And there’s definitely baggage there. But there is with all of them. We believe he can be trusted.”
The woman nods, skeptically. She taps the folder again.
”This girl, Gracie. Does she know?”
He shakes his head.
The older woman picks up the folder again, turns to the last sheet and signs her name.
”Anything else?”
Hawthorne passes over the second folder. It is marked “Delta 100 Magenta: Eyes Only No Retention”.
The woman bites her lip slightly, and with an obvious degree of trepidation reads the contents. This takes her five minutes, and this time she makes no marginal notes. She closes the folder and is silent for a further few minutes, motionless and slightly paler than a few minutes before.
Finally:
”How long do we have, Commander Hawthorne? Before … this?
He fixes his eyes on hers. ”Thirty three years, ma’am. We believe the intelligence is good, though we can’t confirm it. It originated at Hyperion Five, and, though we have no idea who they really are, they haven’t been wrong on anything else.”
She nods her head, as though asserting something to herself. Her eyes are on the middle distance, on something far beyond the room.
”Very well. Is there anything else?”
”Just, well …”
She smiles, a steely smile of authority, not one of warmth. ”Of course.”
The younger woman moves from her place in the corner of the room and stands beside her older counterpart, placing a blue hand beneath the expensively arranged hair, against the skin at the back of the neck. The yellow eyes shine, briefly, spotted with black. The blue hand falls.
The woman in the cornflower blue skirt suit returns her gaze to the man. ”You may leave now, Commander Hawthorne. And, of course, your friend here.”
Hawthorne stands, scoops up the two folders, picks up his cap from the table and turns to leave. As he reaches the door, he turns and nods, a subtle form of salute to a non-military superior.
”Thank you, Commander Hawthorne. For the meeting, and to your friend for erasing the memory of it. A magenta document from your doom-mongers. I am at least to be spared the nightmares, I hope.”
”I hope so too, Prime Minister,” says Commander Hawthorne. He turns on his heel, opens the door, and ushering his blue-skinned companion before him, sweeps from the room.
