The Revolution Business

by Charles Stross

  “Yes.” Brilliana grimaced. “Luckily I found her before things went too badly awry. And there is gold at the end of this tunnel.”

  “Politics! Who needs it?” Olga chirped brightly, momentarily slipping into her well-practiced airhead role. “One needs must be patient while these things work themselves out. But in any case, we thought we ought to visit. It’s well past time we had a talk.”

  “Um.” Paulette backed towards the kitchen. “Sure. How would you like to do it over an iced tea?”

  “I’d like that just fine.”

  Ten minutes later, with mugs in hand, they were seated around the coffee table in the lounge. “Have you had any official visits?” asked Brill. “Men in black, that sort of thing?” She said it lightly, as if half-joking, but Paulette knew how serious it was.

  “No, nothing I’ve noticed. No visits, no strange mini-vans, none of that sort of thing.”

  “Fine.” Brill sounded reassured. Olga, however, looked thoughtful.

  “Don’t you want to check the phone lines?” she asked, unable to help herself.

  “Already done.” Brill’s smile was unsettling. “I left a device behind on my last visit. It would have told me if there was any sign of tampering.”

  “We hope,” Olga added, with a disturbing smile.

  “Oh.” Paulette took a mouthful of her drink to stop herself saying anything she might regret later. “Well that’s alright then.” Brill showed no sign of noticing any irony. “So you came to have a little chat. After nearly six months of nothing at all.” She squinted at Brill. “And you brought Olga. How nice.” Sarcasm was risky, but Paulette was a realist: If the news was really bad, these two wouldn’t have invited themselves in for a social. There had to be a value proposition in play here, an offer too good to refuse. But at least they were here to make an offer, not to simply shoot her out of hand. The Clan were comparatively civilized, for a bunch of barely postmedieval gangsters.

  “She sent us,” said Olga. “She told us to tell you, you were right. But that is not why we are here. It appears the US government has noticed us.”

  “Oh.” Paulette put her glass down. “Shit.”

  There was a moment’s heartfelt silence.

  “Just how much have the feds noticed you guys?” Paulette asked carefully, meaning: Am I likely to get any of that attention?

  “Thoroughly.” Olga looked tired for a moment. “Brill?”

  “There’s an entire new federal agency devoted to us.” Brill took a mouthful of tea, frowned. “Super-black, off the books, siphoning money off the war appropriations and the NSA and the CIA, as far as we can tell. They’ve captured couriers and used them as mules to get into our world. Most recently they”—she swallowed—“used a backpack nuke to send us a message.”

  “Oh Jesus.” There didn’t seem to be anything else to say to that. “That’s not policing, that’s war.”

  “Exactly,” Brilliana said heavily.

  “Which leaves us with problems.” Olga picked up the thread. “We can no longer do business over here as usual”—business being the somewhat less legal side of the import-export trade—“and furthermore, this mess coincided with a political upset back home. Everything’s up in the air.”

  “And you’re off the reservation,” Paulette said drily.

  “Yes, there is that.” Olga glanced sidelong at Brill. “There’s no telling how long it’ll last.” Brill shook her head slightly. “But anyway . . . we came to apologize for dragging you into this mess.”

  “Isn’t it a bit late for that?”

  “Not necessarily. We can cut you loose. You were never directly involved in our principal business operations. There’s no record of you outside of a few handwritten ledgers in Niejwein, and the office Hel-Miriam bought, and there’s no sign that the feds are aware of what she was up to on her own behalf. I think if we cover your tracks we can be confident that they won’t stumble across you.” She halted awkwardly for a moment. “The flip side is, if they identify you as a person of interest, we won’t be able to do anything to protect you. We won’t even know.”

  “Ah.” Paulette contemplated screaming, but it didn’t seem like it would do any good. “What could you do to help?”

  “Well, that depends.” Olga put her hands between her knees, clearly uneasy. “Whatever happens next, the Clan will no longer be acting as, as an extradimensional drugs cartel anymore. The feds consider us to be a hostile government: Should we not act upon our status? Furthermore, the changes among the all-highest mean that they are not entirely wrong. Anyway, I didn’t come here merely to say we are cutting you loose.”

  Here it comes. “What have you got in mind?” Paulette asked wearily. “And is it going to just evaporate under me again, three months down the line? . . .”

  “That wasn’t Miriam’s doing.” Olga grimaced. “You should not underestimate the power of the enemies she made. She spent months under house arrest. Later, you can ask her yourself if you are so inclined. But this is different.”

  “In what way is it different?” Why am I doing this? Paulette asked herself. Am I trying to get myself sucked in again? It was true, the money had been good—and Miriam was a friend, and it beat the ordinary daily grind she’d had before, and the tedious admin job she’d had to take up since; but the downside, attracting the attention of the government, and not in a good way, was almost enough to make her short-circuit the process and say “no” immediately. Only residual curiosity was keeping her going.

  “Miriam has both a secure position and a plan,” said Olga. “She is in a position where, if she plays her hand correctly, she can set policy for the whole Clan. I am not entirely clear on her design, but she said I should tell you that unlike the old trade, this one is both legal and ethically sound. She said it would also need a lot of organizing at this end, materials and books and journals and specialist expertise to buy in . . . and to be firewalled completely from the Clan’s historic operations. Is that of interest to you?”

  Paulette nodded. She’d visited New Britain once at Miriam’s behest, found it a strange and disorienting experience, like a trip to another century. “Well, it’s a plan. But what makes this time different?”

  Olga glanced at Brill, as if for support. “She’s the queen,” she said.

  Paulette blinked. “Queen,” she repeated. It was the last thing she’d have expected to hear.

  “Yes. You know, woman who sits on a throne? Sometimes wears a crown?”

  “Eh.” Paulette blinked again, then looked at Brilliana. Who was watching her, a flicker of tightly controlled amusement twitching her lips. “She’s not joking, is she?”

  “Power is no joking matter.” The younger woman’s eyes were cold. “We’ve just fought a civil war over it. And now Helge is carrying the heir to the throne—long story, you do not need to look shocked—we would be fools not to seize the moment. And we need a new world to exploit, now that this one has shown itself hostile. That much has now become glaringly clear even to the most reactionary of the conservative wing.”

  “Okay.” Paulette licked suddenly dry lips. She could feel her heartbeat. “So what’s in it for me?” If you say old time’s sake I may just punch you . . . this was the proverbial offer too good to refuse. No way will they just let me go now.

  “A tenth of a point of gross,” said Olga. “But you don’t have to say yes now. Miriam is holding a meeting in a few days of her accomplices and confidantes. If you are interested, you may attend.” She slid a business card across the table. “Phone this number no later than four o’clock tomorrow afternoon and say yes or no, then follow the post officer’s instructions; they will see you across. The nature of the business, and your role in it, is such that if you choose to decline the offer, you have nothing to fear—you could spill everything you know, and the US government would learn nothing of use. Oh, and she sends you this. You can treat it as a nonreturnable advance against wages.” She slid a checkbook across the table to rest atop the card. “Hal
f a million bucks in the account, Paulie. Try not to spend it all at once.”

  It was just another summer party, held on the afternoon of a muggy, humid summer day twelve miles outside of Niejwein, in the grounds of a fortified mansion out near what would—in another world—be Lincoln, Massachusetts. Summer parties were a seasonal fixture among the aristocracy of Niejwein, required to live in proximity to their ruler and lacking in any kind of civil society that might host more public entertainments; but this was also the first Miriam had ever held. Just a summer party, Miriam reminded herself, glassy-eyed, as yet more carriages and their obligatory escorts of footmen and mounted guards drew up, disgorging men and women in the peacock finery of the nobility: It was more like the Academy Awards, minus the onlookers and the network television presence, but with added cockfighting behind the woodshed.

  Sir Alasdair had a third of his men dispersed around the perimeter of her commandeered residence, another third staking out the doppelganger house in Lincoln, and the remaining cadre of guards on alert downstairs. Brilliana had the receiving line under control, looking for all the world like the lady of the house herself—and leaving Miriam (again wearing the persona of Helge, Prince Creon’s putative widow) free to focus on those she wished to talk to. Two teenage scions of the inner family lines, Barbara and Magraet, had been introduced into the household for transcription and translation and ensconced in a back room with a bottle of wine and a supply of spare batteries and Dictaphone tapes. And Earl Riordan—no, Baron Riordan, a reward by order in council for his support, paid out of the estates of several drastically pruned noble family trees—had sent her a dozen hard-eyed Security agents in the livery of waiters and other domestics. There’d be no trouble here, clearly. “It’s all under control,” Brill had assured her that morning. “Just relax and enjoy the affair.”

  “Relax? In the middle of this?” Miriam had taken in the organized chaos.

  “Yes, Helge, it’s your job to be serene. Leave the panicking to me.” And Brill had left her to the mercy of her wardrobe staff, who had spent weeks preparing their idea of a party dress for her, and who had never heard of the word excess.

  Which left her standing still in an attempt not to perspire in the stuffy warmth of the blue receiving room, trying to smile and make small talk and juggle a glass of wine and a peacock-feather fan that barely stirred the air in front of her. She was surrounded: With Sir Alasdair standing discreetly to one side, and a permanent floating mob of relatives and hangers-on trying to approach her from the front, she was unable to move, reliant on the two ladies-in-waiting hovering nearby.

  “—The effect on the harvest will, unfortunately, be bad, your highness, with so many destitute; the pretender’s army ate what they could and burned the rest, and banditry and famine follow such as night follows day.”

  Miriam—no, Helge—smiled politely as Lord Ragnr and Styl droned on, talking at her rather than to her, but most accurately delivering his report to the small condenser mic hidden in her corsage. “And how much has been lost, exactly?” she nudged, shaking her head minutely as Sir Alasdair raised an eyebrow and mimed a shoving motion.

  “Oh, lots! I myself counted—” That was Lord Ragnr and Styl’s vice, Miriam remembered. In another world he’d have been an adornment to a major accountancy firm’s boardroom. In this one, he was a liability to his profession (lord oath-sworn to Duke Lofstrom and ruler of some boring fishing villages, a small chunk of forest, and a bunch of peasant hamlets; performance appraisal based on ability to hunt, drink, and kill the duke’s enemies). But she’d listened to him before, and he seemed to think this gave him license to bend her ear in future, and what he had to say was deeply tedious but clearly a matter of profound importance for the business of future good governance. And so, she stood and smiled, and listened to the man.

  “—By your leave, my lord?” Miriam blinked back to the present as Sir Alasdair gently interrupted. “My liege, your grandam is about to be announced.”

  “She is?” Miriam felt the color draining from her cheeks. Well shit! “You’re certain about that?” I thought she was dead!

  “Absolutely.” Sir Alasdair’s expression was imperturbable: She noted the colorless wire coiling from his left ear to the collar of his tunic.

  “Oh. Well.” She took a breath of musty, overheated air. “My lord, you must, please, forgive me? But I have not seen my grandmother since before the insurrection, and”—if I clap eyes on her before I die of old age it’s too soon—“I really must pay my respects.” I’d rather piss on her grave, but I suppose I’d better find out why she’s here.

  Ragnr and Styl seemed disappointed for some reason, but took it in good spirit, and after much backing and flowery commiseration she was free. More backing and sidling and some whispered instructions and her ladies-in-waiting formed a flying wedge, or at any rate a creeping one. As they moved towards the door with Miriam in their wake she recognized a gaggle of familiar faces. “Sir Huw?” she called.

  “Milady!”

  She smiled, unforced: “Did you bring your results?”

  Huw nodded. “I’m ready to speak. Whenever you want me to.”

  “Good. Upstairs, half an hour?”

  Huw ducked his head and vanished into a knot of younger Clan members. Miriam blinked as she noticed Elena, almost unrecognizable in a red gown with a long train. Are they an item? Miriam wondered, before dismissing the question. Where’s Mom? I need her advice before I confront Hildegarde.

  “Milady?” It was Gerta, pressed into service as an attendant. “If it please you . . .”

  “I need to circulate,” she mouthed over her shoulder. “Sir Alasdair? . . .”

  The press around her began to give way as she made progress towards the main hall. Despite the open doors and windows the air was no less close, thanks to the milling clusters of visitors and their attendants, and the copious quantities of rose water and other perfumes with which they attended to their toilet. Out here in the countryside, the humidity and stink of summer was a mere echo of conditions in the capital; though the gods had little to say against bathing (unlike the early Christians), the smell of old sweat and unwashed clothing was unpleasantly noticeable.

  “Make way for her grace!” called one of her servants. “Make—”

  “So the rumors were accurate. You did survive.”

  Miriam turned to face the speaker. “I could say the same of you. Grandmother.”

  The grand dowager Duchess Hildegarde was in her eighties, one of those octogenarians who seemed to persist through a process of mummification. She stared at Miriam, her eyelids drooping as if in disinterest. “I find that interesting,” she said flatly. “The odds were not in your favor.”

  For a moment Miriam flickered back to that bewildering and fearful night, remembering James Lee’s evident flattery—and offer of a locket bearing the Lee clan’s deviant knotwork: In retrospect an incitement to defect. She managed a polite smile. “I try to make a habit of beating bad odds.”

  “Hah. You’ll continue to face them, girl, as long as you keep playing your fancy games. You ignore the old ways at your peril; others cleave to them, and your fingers can be burned just as easily by the fire you didn’t light. Although you do seem to have a fine talent for getting others to rescue you from situations of your own devising. But on another matter, have you seen your dam? I must have words with her. We need to clear the air.”

  Her grandmother’s offhanded condescension didn’t surprise Miriam; but the suggestion that the air needed clearing was something else. “What’s there to talk about? I thought you’d disowned her!”

  “Well.” Hildegarde’s cheek twitched into something that might have been a grimace. “That was then; this is politics, after all.”

  “On the contrary, this is my party, and I’m shocked, absolutely shocked, that anybody might want to discuss matters of politics here.” Miriam glared at her grandmother. “Or haven’t you worked it out yet?”

  Hildegarde looked her up and d
own. “Oh, Patricia raised you well,” she breathed. “And I could ask exactly the same of you, but you wouldn’t listen. Best save my breath. You’ll understand eventually.” Then, before Miriam could think of a suitable response, she turned and shuffled aside.

  “What was that about?” asked Brill, materializing at her elbow: “I could have sworn—”

  “I wish I knew.” Miriam stared after the dowager, perturbed. “I have the strangest feeling that she was trying to send me some sort of message I’m meant to understand. Only somebody forgot to tell me how to mind read.”

  “She is”—Brill stared at the broad shoulders of the dowager’s arms-men—”a most powerful and dangerous lady.”

  “And what makes it worse is the fact that she thinks I ought to be on her side.” Miriam curled her lower lip.

  “Really?” Brill glanced sidelong at her. “I was going to say, I believe she thinks she is looking out for your best interests. Being your grandam, after all.”

  Miriam shrugged uncomfortably. “Save me from people acting in my best interests. Without asking first,” she added.

  “I wouldn’t—” Brill paused and cupped a hand to her left ear. Like Sir Alasdair, she was wearing a wire. “Ah, Baron Isserlis is soon to arrive, my lady. I must leave you for a while. Where should I tell him you want to meet, again?”

  “With the others: in the red room, upstairs, at six o’clock. That’s where I told Laurens to put the projection screen and laptop, anyway.”

  “If that goes for all of them? . . .”

  “It does. Except for the obvious exceptions.”

  “The B-list.”

  “Wine ’em, dine ’em, and keep ’em out of my hair while I’m making the pitch.” Miriam fanned herself. “Can you do that?”

  Brill smiled. “Watch me,” she said. “It’s your job to relax and enjoy yourself. Then give a good presentation!”

  In a mosquito-infested marsh on the banks of a sluggish river, a draft of peasants from the estates of the Earl of Dankfurt had assembled a scaffold. The scaffold, of stout timber with a surface of planking, bore a winch and some additional contrivances, and despite its crude appearance it had been positioned very carefully indeed. Blood and sweat had gone into its location, and the use of imported surveying tools to measure very precisely indeed its distance and altitude relative to the four reference points where Clan couriers had established accurate GPS locations before crossing over from Washington D.C.