Oscar’s face is a perfect death mask of shock, every muscle hanging slack. “But you, I mean, I didn’t—”

“Oscar,” Emma hisses. “Drop it. I’ve got your number. You can’t win this fight.” Her ward is hot against her skin and she’s having to work hard to contain her anger. “You do not walk in here as a new recruit and try to roll your manager. Am I making myself understood?”

Oscar finally manages to nod, jerkily.

“Good. And in answer to your other point: we’re the government, and we are engaged in a, a covert state of hostilities. If you would prefer me not to mince words, we’re at war. This country abolished military conscription for the conventional services in 1960, but an exemption clause in the Act authorizes us to co-opt without limitation individuals who meet certain criteria, set by ourselves but principally defined by their awareness of and ability to program or control metaphysical phenomena.

“Now, the healthy functioning of the organization for which you used to work”—Emma does not miss the startled microexpression that flickers across Oscar’s face—“is clearly aligned with the interests of the State, but as I mentioned, we are at war. It’s a secret conflict, a wizard war if you like, but we are under threat of invasion by entities and agencies from beyond spacetime, ancient horrors that would make your toes curl and your hair turn gray overnight if you met them and were lucky enough to survive the experience. And not losing that war is vastly more important to the nation than ensuring the bottom line of an investment bank. Even if your annual bonus is at stake. Am I making myself clear?”

“But I—” Oscar swallows it. “I see,” he says slowly, “that you believe there’s a war on. And you have emergency regulations out of the 1940s to help you fight it. But is all this strictly necessary?” He hand-waves around the office, as if to encapsulate the dusty warrens and cubicle farms of the New Annex beyond. “Has anyone tried talking to these, ah, ancient horrors? Investigated what, if anything, they are after and looked for a compromise solution that would allow us to get on with business as usual? Your organization is—”

“Stop right there, Mr. Menendez, it’s your organization now. You’re subject to its lawful authority and subordinate to its goals. If we decide to let you go, you can go back to your bank. Until then, it’s my job—one of my jobs—to evaluate the extent of the contribution you can make to the defense of the realm. As to your question, we’re several steps ahead of you. Now, I will admit”—she pats the cardboard folder, so fresh it’s barely dog-eared, that sits beside her monitor—“I’m a little perplexed. Some of my colleagues opine that your team, um, ruck, um—”

“Scrum?”