CHAPTER TWO: NEW YORK

by Josh Reynolds

Commissioner Qiana Taylor sat slumped at her desk, the weight of the world on her shoulders. Or so it felt, of late. She leaned back and stretched, trying to work the kinks out. Above her head, a forest of pencils dotted the ceiling. So far, none of them had fallen out. She decided to take it as a good omen. “You know, the Romans used to practice a form of divination called belomancy,” she said, to the young woman sitting on the opposite side of the desk. “They’d take a handful of arrows and throw them into the ground, then read the future in the resulting patterns.”

“Those are pencils,” Lacey Osborne noted, deferentially.

Taylor snorted. “I am aware of that, Miss Osborne. Tell me.”

“Scarborough is in the wind. The Paris office of the Black Chamber–”

“Cipher Bureau,” Taylor corrected, absently, as she selected a pencil from the jar on her desk. “Calling them the Black Chamber makes it sound like they’re warlocks.”

Osborne nodded and continued, “The Paris office lost contact with her. Or that’s what they claim, at least. From what I can tell, it’s not the first time she’s gone to ground on her own initiative. They seem to expect that she’ll get back in contact eventually.”

“She’s got good instincts,” Taylor said. She weighed the pencil on her finger and then sent it hurtling upwards, lead-first. It sank into the ceiling tile, joining the rest. “We could use some of that around here. Especially these days. What about Swann?”

“Piedmont and Gallet are tailing him. Do you want him picked up?”

“No. Leave it for now. We have bigger worries than a nasty little scavenger like him.” Taylor leaned back again and let her gaze roam around her small office, hidden away in the basement of the New York Public Library. As spaces went, she’d occupied worse. It was bigger than a broom closet, and had access to a private washroom.

A dozen such offices shared the same general space down in the library’s labyrinthine basement. Only half of them were filled, by Osborne and the other agents under Taylor’s authority. But that was going to change, and soon. It would have to, if the Foundation wanted to have any hope of keeping a lid on the new status quo. “Where are we at on the investigation?”

Osborne didn’t ask for clarification. There was only one investigation going on right now – Arkham. The drowned city. She ran a hand through her hair and said, “Stalled. We’ve got people watching several of the individuals involved in the initial… contact, but some of them have just plain vanished. Ruby Standish might be in South America somewhere.”

“What about the antiques dealer? Tillinghast?”

Osborne frowned. “No sign of him.”

Taylor closed her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose. She wasn’t surprised that he was proving elusive. The Foundation weren’t the only ones after him. Tillinghast had to know he was the first name on every agency’s list; he was playing it smart. Staying out of sight. He was probably hoping they’d forget about him, eventually. Either that, or he was laying low and planning his next move. She didn’t much care for the implications of the latter possibility.

Arkham had surprised everyone. One minute just whispers and hints – the next, a full-scale disaster, the repercussions of which were still not fully understood. Floods, quakes, flocks of birds falling from the skies, strange things washing up on local beaches – or walking ashore, in some cases. It was all bad news; all one big headache.

The only bright spot was that now the League of Nations might loosen the purse strings a bit and give her some real funding to properly investigate paradimensional matters. Though she couldn’t help but worry that it might be a matter of too little, too late.

“Have our people in Alexandria reported in, yet?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Osborne said. “They’re having a bit of trouble locating the – ah – individual in question.” She hesitated. “May I speak frankly, ma’am?”

Taylor nodded. “Please do.”

Osborne looked unhappy. “It doesn’t seem altogether wise to involve them in this. Given our history with the Coterie, I mean. We haven’t exactly been bosom chums.”

Taylor paused. She understood how Osborne felt. The Foundation had been focused on the Coterie as Public Enemy Number One for most of their existence. They’d lost good people going up against that particular bunch of esotericists. But things were changing; the gameboard had been flipped. Nobody knew what was coming down the pike. Not even the Coterie. She cleared her throat.

“Osborne, any other time you’d be correct,” she began. “But, in my opinion, this is an all-hands-on-deck sort of situation. The world as we know it has changed. The old certainties… aren’t. A year ago, the Red Coterie was the biggest threat we could imagine. Now their help might be the difference between survival and destruction. And not just them; there are others out there that we need to contact.”

“Like the draft,” Osborne said.

“Something like that. Speaking of which – Agent Roland Banks. What’s his status?”

“Hudson and Antonova are keeping an eye on him. And on his investigation. So far, he hasn’t dug up much more than we have, but he’s pretty determined.”

“Determined is a polite way of saying stubborn as a mule,” Taylor said, pleased. She had high hopes for Banks. A man like that belonged with the Foundation, whether he knew it or not. “What about his bosses?”

“Not happy,” Osborne said.

“No, they wouldn’t be.” Taylor sat back and interlaced her fingers. “Let’s up the pressure a bit. Toss some levers in the halls of influence. You know who to call. I want the Bureau of Investigation to find better things to do with their time. The Cipher Bureau, too. Let’s remind Director Yardley that his attentions are best directed outwards for the moment.”

“May I ask why?”

Taylor selected another pencil and studied it. “Let’s call it belomancy, Osborne.” She smiled and tossed the pencil up to join the rest. “The art of throwing a bunch of stuff up in the air and seeing what sticks.”