Description: SCP-573 is a flute made from bone. DNA and carbon 
testing reveal the material to be human, female, and approximately 
a thousand years old. The bone is a femur, and, from the size, 
comes from a child between the ages of seven and twelve. 


SCP-573 was discovered in , Louisiana, by agents 
investigating the disappearance of local children. Agents arriving on 
the scene were attacked by a pack of wild animals, several different 
species working together. Once the animals were put down, the 
agents were then attacked by several of the missing children, being 
urged on by one Darald King, the then-owner of SCP-573. Agent 
shot Mr. King, ending his hold over the children and preventing a 
major incident. 


Testing of SCP-573 has revealed that, when played, it places 
animals and prepubescent children into a highly receptive state. All 
creatures so affected are eager and willing to do whatever the player 
requests, including things that are beyond them when in a non- 
trance state. Once the instrument is played, subjects remain in the 
trance state for five times the period the flute was played for (e.g. 
play the flute for a minute, the trance remains for five minutes). 


Knowledge of how to play a flute is not needed to effectively use 


"And | highly suggest not gambling on the outcome of antitrust 
investigations in future. We had enough of that with Microsoft in '98." 


When the door closed, David leaned against it heavily, looking at 
Edward through slitted eyes. 


"| think we need to talk," Edward said. 


"Sure." 


There was a fire escape at one side of the trading floor—the actual 
alarmed fire door was a couple of floors down, transforming it into a 
deep well. Due to its lack of lighting and enclosed nature it was 
useless for a surreptitious cigarette, but it was a place you could go 
and be assured of privacy—the walls were too thick to overhear 
anything said in the stairwell and the steps were separated so one 
could see if someone was standing anywhere above you. 


"So, Edward, is this about the Cholmondeley trade? Come on, out 
with it. You've been acting like a spooked deer for days." 


"Yes. I've been out of my mind, waiting for the knock on my door. 
Even the Hong Kong Electric CEO didn't know about the takeover— 
the Board of Directors told him about at the same time 
Cholmondeley told the press. So how did | know about that, David? 
How did | know to buy up twenty-eight fucking million pounds worth 
of shares?" 


"Relax, and stop being a prat. Think about it. Where have you heard 
the name Cholmondeley before?" 


Now David said it, Edward recalled the name had seemed familiar, 
after a moment scanning his memory, he found it—the old porter at 
David's gentleman's club had said it. One of the blandly pretty girls 
who had shared David's Ferrari. 


"Didn't | tell you? Anything you learn at a party, at a club, while 
having dinner with the CEO's daughter—it's all legal.” 


"David, | know the law. This is a tender offer. If you Know the 
merger's non-public..." 


"Who said | knew there was a merger at all? Maybe | just heard that 
Cholmondeley was going to be making some serious outlay on 
expansion. Exciting stuff. And voila, it's legal again." 


"But..." 


"| didn't see a tape recorder when we spoke on Wednesday. Did 
you?" 


"No." 


"Good. If anyone asks, you were the one who heard Bernice 
Cholmondeley blabbing about how much Cl was going to make and 
how her daddy was going to buy her a new pony, or something. 
Now, if you'll excuse me, 30-year UK government bonds don't sell 
themselves." 


He left Edward in the dark stairwell, deep in thought. 


There was no knock on his door. Instead, there was an IRC tab. It 
had opened in the background while he'd been trading midnight 
barbs with an advocate of natural theology on a philosophy debate 
channel. If the concept of God is not omnipotent, Edward was 
arguing, then it is evil; it is incumbent upon every moral person, if he 
or she believes God to be less than invincible, to wage war on the 
founder and author of all evil, pain and death. 


When he idly flicked to the additional pane, bearing a single private 
message, he assumed it was a continuation of the debate, or 
perhaps someone playing a joke; their nick was 'Death'. The content 
of the message, however, dispelled that thought: 


Death: we know about Cholmondeley 


Edward straightened his spine in his chair, irrationally looked around 
him as though someone might be watching. The message was 
ambiguous enough that it might not refer to the trade—perhaps a 
friend of that forgettable woman; Bernice? He typed: 


EGradley: ??? 


Death: don't play dumb. you brought twenty-eight million 
pounds of shares four days ago based on confidential 
information. 


EGradley: who is this? 
Death changed their nick to Death_4H 


Death_4H: just some concerned citizens. we know who 
gave you the information. 


EGradley: Bernice Cholmondeley 


Death_4H: not exactly. whether you're protecting your 
friend or whether he has something on you doesn't 
matter 


Death_4H: let me spell this out for you. you heard about 
the HKE takeover from David Went. he was given the 
information by Marshall, Carter & Dark 


God damn it, thought David. What exactly had he gotten himself into 
here? 


Death_4H: Bernice Cholmondeley traded the information 
to MC&D for membership. 


War_4H has joined the channel 
EGradley: and how do you know this? 


War_4H: you'd be surprised at what people write down 
these days. MC&D's email servers are ironclad. the 
Cholmondeley's private network—not so much. 


Edward blinked. That wasn't possible, was it? You couldn't just waltz 
into a PM thread mid-flow. 


EGradley: as far as I'm concerned all my transactions 
are legitimate. if you have any concerns, David Went is 
lead partner at Cooper Drake. why don't you talk to him if 
you have some concerns about my transactions? 


War_4H: we'd rather play with you. here's how this is 
going to work; you help us or we make an anonymous 
tip-off to the FSA, and they decide whether the 
Cholmondeley deal was above board or not. 


War_4H: whether you give us Went or not doesn't 
matter; we already have emails indicating that MC&D 
intended to give him the info in exchange for various 
favours. 


Shit. Shit. 


EGradley: what, exactly, do you think I'm going to help 
you to do? 


Death_4H: we'll be in touch. 
War_4H has left the channel.** 
Death_4H has left the channel.** 


And just like that, they were gone. Edward sat in front of his 
computer, staring at the impossible conversation. He wondered 
whether this was David Went himself, or someone close to him, 
testing Edward to see if he would reveal his own involvement to a 
third party. But then, why would he contradict his own story and 
implicate himself in a trade for illegal information? Cautiously, 
Edward highlighted the whole conversation and saved it in a Word 
document, then encrypted it, just in case. 


It was evident, he reflected, that Went was protected somehow by 
his affiliation with Marshall, Carter & Dark. Otherwise they would 
have gone after him rather than trying to scare Edward, a marginal 
player in what increasingly sounded like an illicit black market in 
insider information. At the same time, it was no longer clear that he 
could trust David Went, who had involved him in this mess. That left 
him with just one option. 


Edward sat in the café, sipping a blisteringly hot black coffee and 
watching the rain washing down the windows like a giant carafe of 


lukewarm water was being slowly tipped over the world. It had to 
stop sometime, didn't it? He had begun to pity the poor workmen, 
who he had cautiously decided were probably not watching him. 
Today he'd seen one of them apparently in the grip of a nervous 
breakdown, ranting and raving like a lunatic and trying to scrabble 
towards the traffic island in the middle of the interaction while the 
others held him back. He checked his watch. Eleven thirty, he 
thought, sagging visibly. He had taken half the day off and 
increasingly suspected it was going to be fruitless. 


Actually contacting MC&D had proven a chore in itself—their 
website was nothing more than a password-protected portal with 
sealed whois information, and their contact details weren't listed 
anywhere. One night after work he had gone walking on Newgate 
Street to see if he could find their London chapterhouse by memory, 
but quickly found himself lost in the strange maze of roads beyond 
the hospital; his phone and Google Maps couldn't even agree what 
street he was on. And of course, Great Rojet Street appeared 
absolutely nowhere. He had almost given up when he had 
remembered his guest card, left in the back pocket of his coat. It 
was folded and looked rather the worse for wear, but on close 
inspection it had what he was looking for—a phone number, made 
out almost invisibly in matt black lettering on the glossy black card, 
on the lower left corner of its reverse side. 


When he had phoned it, there had been silence for almost twenty 
seconds—punctuated by the occasional pop of static—before a 
distant, faint ringing had begun. A short time later a cracked, 
singsong voice had answered, identifying itself as the Marshall, 
Carter & Dark switchboard. Edward had impressed himself by 
demanding a meeting with the head of their London club, refusing to 
be put off or transferred away. Once he had given the voice his 
name and sent it to get approval from a manager, it had been 
replaced by a smooth, lower-register male voice that made no 
mention of Cholmondeley, David, or even the club itself, but quickly 
arranged a meeting for eleven o'clock the following morning at an 
upscale eatery. Edward was sure he hadn't imagined the looks the 
staff gave when he mentioned he was waiting for a business 
associate; he guessed this was a locale used by MC&D for sensitive 
meetings where they didn't trust them enough to admit them to the 


clubhouse. 


Just as Edward was about to call it a day and leave, the door 
chimed and a man walked in. He wasn't carrying an umbrella but 
was visibly bone dry, not a hair out of place. Impressive, thought 
Edward, though | can think of about five ways he could have pulled 
that one off. However he had made it from his vehicle—almost 
certainly the black Rolls Royce with gold trim parked outside—there 
was no doubt that the stunt had been intended for his benefit and 
that this was his contact. The man was tall—about Edward's height 
—and handsome in a high-maintenance, polished way. He could 
have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, with blue eyes anda 
wave of fine blond hair. He sat, drawing back his lips to reveal 
perfect white dentition. 'Smile' was probably the wrong word for it. 


"Mr Gradley. So good to meet you." They shook hands; the man had 
somehow contrived to signal for a tall latte, which was placed down 
quickly and efficiently by a wide-eyed young waitress who 
immediately backed away and all but ran into the back of the café, 
followed by the older brunette. 


"And you are?" 


"Just call me Jeremy. Now, | understand you have an interest in our 
little establishment." 


"Yes. I've seen what you've done for David—David Went—and I'd 
like the same deal." 


"| see. And do you understand the terms?" Jeremy listed his cup and 
sipped expectantly. 


"| think so. | receive conditional membership—entitling me to, ah, 
help and support from your association, and in return | pass on 
information and make financial opportunities available to Marshall, 
Carter & Dark." 


Jeremy chuckled, shook his head and emptied a packet of Splenda 
into his latte. 


"It's a bit more formal than that, I'm afraid. Mr Went's membership 


comes with his place in our Acquisitions team. You see, we at 
MC&D offer our members the most expensive and exclusive 
experiences and articles anywhere in the world. You've seen our 
catalogue?" Edward nodded. "Well, for those who would ordinarily 
be unable to afford our membership we offer a limited package that 
permits access to our private events and the benefit of, well, 
bespoke consultation with MC&D experts on matters which could 
further their career. Oh, and complete immunity should they act on, 
or help others act on, the advice they have received. In return, they 
help us acquire special objects and people of interest to our 
established members. If they continue to get results, then they can 
expect a corresponding increase in the level of advice they receive 
untii—who knows? They may be able to purchase full membership. 
And then they'll be the ones requesting rare and beautiful things 
from across the world." 


Edward thought this all sounded very familiar. 
"| see. And if | wanted to join this Acquisitions group?" 


"Then you would need to undergo a formal orientation. If the 
opportunities | have discussed are of interest, please call through to 
our switchboard and have one of our cars bring you to our 
chapterhouse this evening. Orientations begin at ten sharp." 


And with that the meeting seemed to be over. Jeremy left still 
holding his drink, elegantly dipping into the door of the Rolls-Royce 
held open for him by a stocky man with short salt-and-pepper hair 
who didn't seem to enjoy the same protection from the elements. 
Edward swirled his coffee and smiled at the staff as they ventured 
back out. 


"Bit of a dragon, is he?" he asked cheerily. No-one responded. 


The orientation was a surreal experience. One of the black Rolls 
stopped outside Edward's apartment, the contrast with his Astra 
finally persuading him that he would have to visit a dealership soon 
and spend some of his bonus. The driver, a skinny, young man with 
bright red hair and a long, lipless sneer, drove him in silence through 
the soft-lit streets that had somehow avoided Google Street View's 


vans, finally stopping outside the sightless facade of the clubhouse. 
Once inside a heavy, silken cloth was tied over his eyes and led 
through several rooms until he reached a cold, echoing space where 
he felt the presence of many other people waiting, probably similarly 
blinded. Then he heard a voice—it sounded somewhat like Jeremy, 
though the acoustics meant he couldn't be certain. This is what it 
said: 


"Welcome to Marshall, Carter & Dark Ltd. If you are here, then you 
have been accepted into our ranks. Congratulations. 


"A short summary of our organisation is in order. We are a 
gentleman's concern, providing our members with the most 
exclusive, expensive, and rare experiences available. We are 
centered in London, with agents all over the world, finding and 
retrieving items for US so we may better provide said experiences. 
Those of you here today, sitting blindfolded in the audience, are to 
be our finders, our retrievers. 


"Many of you have connections to other groups that deal with 
objects or information that we are interested in—we expect full 
loyalty to our cause despite these connections. Any sign of deviance 
will be punished. 


"As you will work on a case by case basis, | will be very broad. 
Cases, known as Acquisitions, will be assigned based upon your 
personal areas of expertise. You are not allowed to turn down an 
Acquisition. While working on an Acquisition, you will have access to 
the resources of our organisation, depending on the case. Abuse of 
these resources will be punished. 


"You are to apply yourself to the assigned Acquisition with all due 
haste, whilst keeping up any required appearances. Under no 
circumstances are you to reveal that you are working for Marshall, 
Carter & Dark. Any attempt to speak about Marshall, Carter & Dark 
with people that have not been sanctioned by Marshall, Carter & 
Dark will be punished.