The Revolution Business

by Charles Stross

  “With respect, sir, that’s crazy. The Clan doesn’t work that way; what might work with a criminal enterprise or a dictatorship is the wrong way to go about nudging a hereditary aristocracy. He’s talking about assassinating someone’s mother or brother. They’ll see it as cause for a blood feud!”

  “Hmm. That’s another way of looking at things. Only it’s already out of date. Mike, you swore an oath. Can I rely on you to keep this to yourself?”

  Fleming nodded, uncertain. “I guess so.” Part of him wanted to interrupt: But you’re wrong! He’d spent two stinking days running a fever in a horse-drawn carriage with Miriam’s mother and the Russian ice princess with the sniper’s rifle, and every instinct screamed that the colonel’s scenario setup was glaringly wrong—that to those folks, the political was personal, very personal indeed, and a phone bomb in the wrong ear wouldn’t be treated as a message but as grounds for a bloody feud played out by the assassination of public figures—but at the same time, the colonel obviously had something else on his mind. And he had a sick, sinking feeling that trying to bring conflicting facts to the colonel’s attention, much less Dr. James’s, would lead to dismissal of his concerns at best. At worst—don’t go there, he told himself.

  “You didn’t hear this from me, and you will not repeat it, but a few days ago we did an audit. The bad guys didn’t stop at just one nuke. We’re fairly certain our quiver is missing six arrows—that’s how many are missing, including the one we recovered, and the MO was the same for each theft.”

  “Six—shit! What happened?”

  “Too much.” Smith paused for a few seconds, cutting in behind a tractor-trailer. “The doctor sent the one we found back to them: Another of his little messages. He has, it seems, got some special friends in Special Forces, and contacts all the way up to the National Command Authority. He’s gotten the right help to build his own stovepiped parallel command and control chain for these gadgets, and he’s gotten VPOTUS’s ear, and VPOTUS got the president to sign off on it. . . . Hopefully it killed a bunch of their troops. There’s been a determination that we are at war; this isn’t a counter-terrorism op anymore, nor a smuggling interdiction. They’ve even gone to the Supremes to get a secret ruling that Posse Comitatus doesn’t apply to parallel universes.

  “To VPOTUS’s way of thinking, these guys are as much a threat to us as Chemical Ali was—hell, even more of a threat. The closest thing to a weapon of mass destruction he had was Saddam’s head on a stick, but he had to go, visibly and publicly, and these guys have to go, too. Even when it was just one nuke, if they’d given it back to us when we asked nicely, and sued for terms . . . it was going to be difficult. Anyway, there’s no use crying over spilt milk. The five remaining bombs aren’t enough to hurt us significantly—but they’re more than enough justification for what’s coming next. There’s a lab out west that’s been making progress on a gizmo for moving stuff between, uh, parallel universes. And you know what the price of gas is. If we can make it work, it’ll be a lot easier to get at the oil under their version of Texas than to deal with the Saudis. That’ll be what WARBUCKS is thinking, and it’s going to be what he’s telling James to expedite. When Wolfowitz gets through fixing up Iraq . . . do I need to draw you a diagram?”

  At war. Mike shook his head. “So you’re telling me this is just another oil war? Has anyone told Congress that they’re supposed to have authorized this?”

  “You know as well as I do that that’s not how things happen in this administration. They’re looking to our national security in the broadest terms, and when they’ve got their ducks lined up in a row, well: They’ve got a majority in Congress, they’re even in the Senate, and the other side have given them the most pliable minority leader in decades. Lieberman’s terrified of not looking tough on security issues, and lets WARBUCKS play him like a piano. That’s why the president’s style of leadership works: He decides, and then WARBUCKS gives him the leverage.”

  “Not, he decides whatever WARBUCKS wants him to?”

  Smith gave him an old-fashioned look. “That’s not for you or me to comment on, Mister Fleming. Either way, though, the narcoterrorism angle and the stolen nukes will make great headline copy if—when—it leaks out in public. We can call them Taliban 2.0, now with nukes: It’ll play well in Peoria, and the paranoia aspect—bad guys who can click their heels and vanish into thin air—is going to keep everyone on their toes. Bottom line is, those guys picked the wrong administration to mess with.” Smith glanced sidelong at Mike. “But I’m a lot less happy about Dr. James’s habit of going outside the chain of command.”

  Mike nerved himself. “Aren’t you a bit worried that the doctor may be completely misreading how these people will react? They’re not narcoterrorists and they’re not hicks, they’ve got their own way of doing things—”

  “It doesn’t matter how they respond,” said the colonel. “They’re roadkill, son. A decision has been made, at the highest level. We don’t negotiate in good faith with nuclear terrorists: We lie to them and then we kill them. The oil is a side issue. If you’ve got a problem with that, tell me now; I’ll find you a desk to fly where I can keep an eye on you and you don’t have to do anything objectionable.” The final word came out with an ironic drawl and a raised eyebrow.

  For a bleak, clear moment Mike could see it all bearing down on him: a continent of lies and weasel-worded justifications, lies on both sides—Olga couldn’t have been as ignorant as she’d professed, not if six of the things were missing—and onrushing bloody-handed strife. From the administration on down, policy set by the realpolitik dictates of securing the nation’s borders and energy supplies . . . up against an adversary who had stolen nuclear weapons and dealt with enemies by tit-for-tat revenge slaying.

  “I’m on board,” he said, holding his misgivings close to his chest. “I just hope those missing nukes show up.”

  “So do I.” The colonel grimaced. “And so do the people we’ve got looking for them.”

  BEGIN RECORDING:

  “My lord Gruen, his lordship Oliver, Earl Hjorth.”

  (Sound of door closing.)

  “Ah, Oliver.”

  My lord Baron! If you would care to take a seat? . . . We are awaiting her grace, and Baron Schwartzwasser. I think then we may proceed. . . .”

  (Eighteen minutes pass. More people arrive.)

  “. . . Let us begin.” (Clears throat.) “I declare this session open. My lord Gruen, you requested this meeting, I believe to discuss the recent incident in the northwest?”

  “Yes, yes I did! Thank you, my lord. I have reports—”

  “—It’s insupportable!”

  “My lady? Do you have something you feel you must contribute, or can we hear Lord Gruen’s report first?”

  “It’s insupportable!” (Vile muttered imprecations.) “Ignore me. I am just an old grandmother. . . .”

  “Hardly that, my lady. Lord Gruen?”

  “I am inclined to agree with her grace, as it happens: Her description of it is succinct. Here are the facts of the matter. The Pervert’s army split into three columns, which dispersed and harried our estates grievously. His grace Duke Lofstrom responded by dispersing small defensive forces among the noble households, but concentrating the main body of our Security corvée in the Anglische world as a flying column. He was most insistent that at some point the Pervert would bring his arms together to invest one of our great estates, in the hope of drawing us into a battle in which, outnumbered, we would fall.

  “Despite our entreaties to defend our estates adequately and wipe out the attacking columns, he deliberately starved us of troops, claiming that he must needs give the Pervert a false, weak, picture of our strength of arms, and that in any case there were insufficient soldiers to defend all our households.”

  (Sound of paper shuffling.)

  “Despite one’s worst fears as to his motivation, I must concede that Isjlmeer and Nordtsman received no more succor than did Giraunt Dire and Hjalmar; the duk
e applied his neglect evenhandedly, failing to relieve his own party inasmuch as he also neglected our own. I do not, therefore, believe that there would be support for a move to relieve him in Committee, especially in view of the accuracy of his prediction. The Pervert did concentrate his forces to attack the Hjalmar Palace, evidently with treachery in mind, and in doing so he placed his army within reach of the duke’s flying column. Unimpeachable sources tell me that the Pervert’s forces had stolen machine guns, but were inadequately supplied and poorly deployed to resist the attack that Earl Riordan was preparing.”

  (Throat clearing.)

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Are you then confirming that, that Angbard’s strategy was sound?”

  (Pause.)

  “I would prefer to say that it wasn’t obviously unsound, my lord. Clearly, his parsimony in the defense of our estates bled us grievously. But equally clearly, if he had committed troops to our defense, he would have been unable to concentrate the forces he needed for a counterattack, and he would have ceded the initiative to the Pervert. It is possible that a more aggressive strategy of engagement would have borne fruit earlier, but one cannot be certain.”

  “Oh.” (Disappointed.)

  “Indeed.” (Drily.) “I am much more concerned by the unexpected outcome of the events at the fork in the Wergat. There is considerable confusion—the Anglischprache attack on the duke’s forces, the duke’s ictus, the exfiltration through the other Anglische realm with the connivance of the traitor family—and lastly, the, the atomic bomb. I was hoping my lord Hjorth might shed some light on that latter.”

  (Muttering.) “My lords, my lady. If I may speak?”

  Her grace: “You may speak until the cows come home, and convince no one.”

  “Nevertheless, if I may speak? . . .”

  (Conversation dies down.)

  “Thank you. Of the duke’s condition, I shall speak later: As your representative on the security committee I believe I may brief you on the subject. But to get back to the matter in hand, my sources tell me that when the traitor Matthias fled to the Anglischprache king-president’s party nine months ago, he clearly gave them much more than anyone anticipated. Previous fugitives have been taken for madmen and incarcerated, or we have been able to hunt them down and deal with them—but Matthias appeared to vanish from the face of the earth. We now know that he flung himself on the mercy of the Drug Enforcement Agency, and by their offices, on a dark and sinister conspiracy of spies.”

  (Shocked muttering.)

  “There is worse. As you know, with the aid of those of our younger generation who have enlisted and served in the American armies, we have gained some knowledge of, and eventually access to, their atomic bombs. The weight and complexity of these devices, and the secrecy that surrounds their activation, transport, and use, defied us for many years, but in the second year of Alexis’s reign we finally infiltrated”—(muttering)—“a master sergeant in the Marine Corps, yes—enlisted and received special training—man-portable devices, designed for smuggling, with which to sabotage the enemies of the Anglischprache empire overseas in time of war—the, ah, Soviet Union. And these devices were stored securely, they thought, but without doppelgangering, as is to be expected of the ignorant. It was a delicate but straightforward task to build a bunker from which a world-walker could enter the storage cells—the hardest part was obtaining a treaty right to the land from the Teppeheuan, and the maintenance schedule for the bombs. From then on, of the twelve weapons, we ensured that six were stored on our side at all times, and rotated back into the Pantex store when they were due to be repaired.

  “Then Matthias stole one of them.”

  (More shocked muttering.)

  “Order! Order, I say!”

  “Thank you, my lord. If I may continue?”

  (Pause.)

  “Matthias ven Holtzbrinck was trusted. Nobody suspected him! He was Duke Lofstrom’s keeper of secrets. I must confess that in all fairness I thought him a man of the utmost probity. Be that as it may, Matthias ordered the removal of one of the weapons, and then hid it somewhere. We don’t know where because he covered his tracks exceedingly well: Perhaps one of the dead could tell us, but . . . anyway. Need I explain what the king-president’s men thought of their ultimate witch-weapon being stolen? I think we can guess. My sources tell me that they began negotiations with the duke with a threat, and that their spies have already been apprehended in the Gruinmarkt. Don’t look so shocked. Did you think our missing soldiers had betrayed us and sought refuge? Captivity and slavery—they have ways of compelling a world-walker”—(muttering)—“We face a determined enemy, and they showed just how determined they were at the Hjalmar Palace.”

  “Then it was an atomic bomb?”

  “Yes.”

  (Uproar. Three minutes . . .)

  “Order! Order, I say!”

  “My lady? You have the floor.”

  “This is insupportable! Gentlemen, we have known for many years that one day the Anglischprache would learn of our existence. But we cannot allow them to, to think they can tamper at will in our affairs! Sending, without warning, an atomic bomb, into a castle invested only hours earlier by the pride of our army, is a base and ignoble act. It is dishonorable! To live with this threat hanging over us is intolerable, and I submit that it is unthinkable to negotiate as one ruler to another with a king-president who would deliver such a stab in the back. If negotiations were in hand then they acted with base treachery. We act, now, as the largest faction of the Clan, and as rulers of the kingdom of Gruinmarkt, though the peace is not yet settled. We must secure our kingdom from this threat; if there is one thing I have learned in more than sixty years of politics and thirty years of war, it is that you cannot sleep peacefully unless your neighbor can be relied on to obey the same law as you do. The Americans are now, like it or not, our neighbors. We must therefore compel them to obey the law of kings.”

  “My lady. What are you suggesting?”

  (Coldly.) “One act of treachery deserves another. Do we not have arms? Do we not have a kingdom to defend? The American king-president—or rather, the power behind his throne—has declared war upon us and through us upon our domain and all those who live in it. We must make it clear that we will not be trifled with. The time for petty affairs of finance and customs is over. We must hurt the Americans, and hurt them so badly that their next king will not meddle lightly in our affairs.

  “My lords. We have, in the course of this civil war, already found it necessary to kill one self-proclaimed king: even, one who would have reigned by blessing of the Sky Father. We must not, now, balk at the death of another lord who is an even greater danger to us than the Pervert. We must settle this matter with the Americans before they think to send their atomic bombs into the heart of Niejwein, aye, and every stronghold and palace in the land. And the best way to compel their rulers to negotiate in good faith is to demonstrate our strength with utmost clarity. My lords, you must decapitate the enemy. There is no alternative. . . .”

  (Uproar.)

  END RECORDING

  8

  High Estate

  T

  here was a country estate, untouched by war, separated from the clinic in Springfield by about three blocks and two-and-a-half thousand years of divergent history. Brill had picked up a courier from somewhere nearby and driven Miriam round to a safe house on a quiet residential street; whereupon the courier had carried her across, back into the depths of someone else’s history.

  It was, in many respects, like her time as an involuntary guest of Baron Henryk. There was no electricity in the great stone-walled house, and no central heating or water on tap, and she was surrounded by servants who spoke to her only in hochsprache. Brill had left her in the hands of the maidservants, and she’d felt an unpleasant tension as the chattering women dressed her in clothes from the landholder’s wife’s chests. Trapped again: She felt a quite unexpected sense of panicky claustrophobia rising as they fussed over her.
It had been hard to stand still, giving no sign of her urge to bolt and run: She forced herself to recall Brill’s oath. She won’t leave me here, she told herself.

  To distract herself she fought her unease by trying to puzzle out their story. The landholder, she eventually concluded, was away in the wars, a relative of the Clan families: He’d sent his dependents to safety for the duration, leaving the staff behind with instructions to look after whomever the council billeted on them. Which meant they were expecting to host one Lady Helge, house and braid and surname unspecified, not Miriam—a woman from another world. You let yourself get trapped again, a little corner of her worried. They laid out a trap and let you walk right into it.