The Trade of Queens tmp-6

by Charles Stross

  “I don’t know if this will work,” said Paulette. “I’ve never done it before.”

  “Don’t worry, they’ll have set this up to be fail-safe. Believe me, we had enough trouble cracking their communication security—they know what they’re doing. You may not get an immediate answer, but they’ll know you paged them.”

  “I don’t know how you can sit there and be so calm about it!”

  Mike shrugged. “I’ve had a long time to get used to the idea,” he said. Not exactly true: He’d had a couple of weeks. But the stench of bureaucratic excess, the penumbra of the inquisition, had clouded his entire period of service at the Family Trade Organization. “Sometimes you can smell it when the place you work, when there’s a bad atmosphere? When people are doing stuff that isn’t quite right? But nobody says anything, so you think it’s just you, and you’re afraid to speak out.”

  Paulie nodded. “Like Enron.”

  “Like—more than Enron, I guess; like the CIA in the early seventies, when they were out of control. Throwing people out of helicopters in Vietnam, mounting coups in South America. It’s like they say, fish rot from the head down.”

  She lifted the phone handset she’d been gripping with bony fingers and hesitantly punched in an area code, and then a number. “We did an in-depth on Enron. It was just unbelievable, what was going on there.” The phone rang, unanswered; she let it continue for ten seconds, then neatly ended the call. “What’s next?”

  Mike consulted the handwritten list she’d given him. “Second number, ring for four seconds, at least one minute after ending the first call.” She didn’t need him to do this: She could read it herself, easily enough. But company helped. “The hardest part of being a whistle-blower is being on your own, on the outside. Everybody telling you to shut the hell up, stop rocking the boat, keep your head down and work at whatever the wise heads have put in front of you. Hmm. Area code 414—”

  Paulie dialed the second number, let it ring for four seconds, then disconnected. “I did an interview with Sherron Watkins, you know? When the whole Enron thing blew up. She said that, too, pretty much.” She stabbed the phone at him. “Harder to blow the whistle on these guys, let me tell you. Much harder.”

  “I know it.” He stared at the third number on the list. “On the other hand, they’re not your regular gangsters: They think like a government.”

  “Some folks say, governments are gangsters. A bunch of guys with guns who demand money, right?”

  “There’s a difference of approach. Gangsters aren’t part of the community. They don’t put anything back into it, they don’t build roads and schools, they just take the money and run. Governments think differently. At least, working ones do.”

  “But the Clan take money out of our communities. They don’t spend it on us, do they? From our point of view they’re like gangsters.”

  “Or an empire.” Mike turned the thought around, examining it from different angles. “Like the Soviet Union, the way they drained resources from outlying territories.” There was something not quite right with the metaphor, if he could just figure it out. “Oh, next number time. Area code is 506—”

  They worked down the list over the course of an hour, as the jug of coffee cooled and the evening shadows lengthened outside. There were five numbers to call for varying lengths of time, at set minimum intervals; the third had an annoying voice menu system to navigate, asking for a quotation for auto insurance, and the fifth—answered in an Indian call center somewhere—was the only one with human interaction required: “Sorry, wrong number.”

  The whole tedious business was necessary for several reasons. A couple of random numbers to make traffic analysis harder; a couple of flags to say I need to talk and I am not under duress; and words spoken into a recording device to prove that the contact was, in fact, Paulette Milan, and not an agent in an FTO office. There were other rituals to perform: the curtains to be left undrawn in the spare bedroom but drawn in the main, a light to be left on inside the front door. Rituals of tradecraft, the magic rite of summoning spies, impenetrable to outsiders but practiced for good reason by those on the inside. Someone sets up a small but highly professional intelligence agency. Question: Where do they get their training? Given that we know their soldiers use the USMC as a finishing school … Mike pondered for a moment, then winced. Every one of the possible answers that came to mind was disturbing.

  Finally they were done. “I should hear back within twenty-four hours,” Paulie said diffidently. She paused. What now? he wondered.

  “I’ve been staying in a motel.” It would be racking up another night’s charges. The idea of driving back there to spend another night in silence abruptly made him nauseous. “Don’t get me wrong, but I think I should be here if they come unexpectedly—”

  She looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded. “You can use the spare bedroom if you like. There’s spare bedding in the closet.”

  “Thank you.” To fill the potentially awkward silence he added, “I feel like I’m imposing on you.” He’d had his fill of silence: Silence concealed lies. “Can I buy you dinner?”

  “Guess so.” The set of her shoulders relaxed slightly. “Where did you meet Miriam, the first time?”

  * * *

  The sky was overcast, and the muggy onshore breeze blew a stink of fish guts and coal smoke across the streets, gusting occasionally to moan and rattle around the chimney stacks—the barometer was falling, a rain front threatening to break the summer heat.

  Driving sixty miles over the poor-quality roads in a pair of steamers with leaf-spring suspensions had taken them the best part of four hours, but they’d started early and the purposeful-looking convoy had apparently convinced the more opportunistic highwaymen to keep a low profile. The only delays they encountered were a couple of checkpoints manned by volunteer militias, and as these were mostly concerned with keeping the starving robber gangs out of their suburbs, Miriam’s party were waved through—a rapid progress doubtless greased by the low-denomination banknotes interleaved between the pages of the inkjet-forged Vehicle Pilot’s Warrants that Huw and Alasdair presented when challenged. It was, perhaps, for the best that the militiamen’s concupiscience avoided the need for a search: much better to hand over a few hundred million New Crown notes than to risk a brisk and very one-sided exchange of gunfire.

  “Did you see that?” Brill asked Miriam indignantly as they left the second checkpoint: “Half of them were carrying pitchforks! And the one with the bent nose, his tines were rusty!”

  There were few obvious signs of revolution as they drove through the outskirts of Boston. More men and women in the streets, perhaps, hanging out in small groups; but with the economy spiraling into a true deflationary depression and unemployment nearing fifty percent, that was hardly surprising. There were soup kitchens, true, and the street cars bore banners proclaiming that the People’s Party would feed the needy at certain listed locations—but there were also fishmongers and grocery stalls with their wares laid out in front, and the district farmer’s market they passed was the usual chaos of handcarts and wagons piled high with food. Someone was keeping things moving, between town and country—a good sign, as far as Miriam could tell.

  And then they were into familiar streets and the second car turned off, heading for its prearranged rendezvous point. “I’ll get out here and walk the rest of the way,” Miriam said quietly as they sat behind a streetcar that had stopped for a horse-drawn wagon to unload some crates. “You know the block. I’ll remember to press once every ten minutes while things are going well.”

  “Check it now,” said Brilliana, holding up her own earpiece.

  “Check.” Miriam squeezed her left hand, inside a coat pocket. Brill’s unit beeped. “Okay, we’re in business.”

  Brilliana caught her arm as she opened the door. “Take care, my lady. And if you sense trouble—”

  “There won’t be any trouble,” Miriam said firmly. Not with Sir Alasdair and his team watching my b
ack. If there was any trouble, if she was walking into a baited trap rather than a safe meeting, things would get spectacularly messy for the troublemakers. It wasn’t just a matter of them having modern automatic weapons, two-way radios, and the ability to world-walk out of danger: Alasdair had cherry-picked the best men he could find in Clan Security for her bodyguard, and they’d planned and rehearsed this meeting carefully. “I’ll be fine.”

  There was an alleyway, off the high street between two shuttered shopfronts; partway along it stood a tenement with its own shuttered frontage, and the three gilt balls of a pawnbroker hanging above the doorway. Miriam walked back along the pavement and turned in to the alleyway. There were no obvious watchers, nor loitering muggers. She marched up to the door beside the wooden shuttered window and yanked the bell-pull.

  A few seconds later the door opened. “Come in, come in!” It was Erasmus, his face alight with evident pleasure. Miriam drew a deep breath of relief and stepped across the threshold. “How have you been?” he asked. “I’ve been worried—”

  The door swung to behind her, and she took a step forward, ending up in his arms with her chin on his shoulder. He hugged her gingerly, as if afraid she might break. “It’s been crazy,” she confessed, hugging him back. “I’ve missed you too.” Erasmus let go and straightened up awkwardly. “There’s been a lot happening, much of it bad.”

  “Indeed, yes—” He took a step back, into the shadowy interior of the shop. “Excuse me.” He turned and pushed a button that had been screwed crudely to the wall beside the door. A buzzer sounded somewhere below, in the cellars. “An all-clear sign. Just a precaution.” He shrugged apologetically. “Otherwise they won’t let me out of their sight.”

  Miriam glanced round. “I know that problem.” The shop was just as she’d last seen it, albeit dustier and more neglected. But there was a light on in the back room, and a creaking sound. “Do you want to talk in front of company?”

  “We’ll be in the morning room upstairs, Frank,” Erasmus called through the doorway, his voice a lot stronger than when she’d first met him.

  “Are you sure?” Frank, staying unseen in the back room, had a rough voice.

  “You’ve got the exit guarded. You’ve got the area covered. I will personally vouch for Miss Beckstein’s trustworthiness; without her I wouldn’t be alive for you to nanny me. But your ears are not safe for this discussion. Do you understand?”

  Frank chuckled grimly. “Aye, citizen. But all the same, if I don’t hear from you inside half an hour, I’ll be coming up to check on you by and by. It’s what Sir Adam would expect of me.”

  Erasmus shrugged apologetically at Miriam. “This way,” he mouthed, then turned and opened the side door onto the tenement stairwell. Halfway up the staircase he added, “I should apologize for Frank. But he’s doing no less than his duty. Even getting this much time to myself is difficult.”

  “Uh, yes.” Miriam waited while Erasmus opened the door to the morning room. Dust sheets covered the piano and the villainous, ancient sofa. He stripped the latter one off, sneezing as he shook it out and cast it atop the piano stool. “My, I haven’t been back here in months.”

  Miriam sat down carefully. Then, remembering, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the walkie-talkie. “Miriam here. Stand down, repeat, stand down. Over.” She caught Erasmus staring at the device. “I have guards, too.” It beeped twice, Brill acknowledging; she slid it away. “Please, sit down,” she asked, gesturing at the other side of the sofa.

  “You have a habit of surprising me.” Erasmus folded himself into the far corner. “Please don’t stop.”

  “Not if I can help it.” She tried to smile, belying the tension in her stomach. “How’s it going, anyway?”

  “How’s what going?” He waved a hand at the piano, the dusty fly-specked windows, the world beyond. “I never thought I’d live this long. Never thought I’d see the end of the tyranny, either. Nor that Sir Adam would come back and form a government, much less that he’d ask me to—well. How about yourself? What has happened to you since we last met? Nothing too trying, I hope?” His raised eyebrow was camouflage, she realized. He’s worried. About me? She pushed the thought aside.

  “Madness—bedlam,” she translated. “Let me see if I can explain this.… I told you about the Clan? My relations?” He nodded. “Things went bad, very fast. You know what I was trying to do, the business. Brake pads, disk brakes. Their conservatives—they spiked it. Meanwhile, they tried to shut me up. Apparently a full-scale civil war broke out back home. And the conservative faction also discovered that the other—you know the world I came from isn’t the one the Clan live in?—that other America, they found out about the Clan. To cut a long story short, the Clan conservatives tried to decapitate the American government, and at the same time, tried to kill the progressive faction. They failed on both counts. But now the US military are winding up for war on the Clan, and it looks like they might be able to build machinery for moving their weapons between worlds. It’s not magic, Erasmus, it’s some kind of physical phenomenon, and their scientists—they’re better than you can imagine.”

  Burgeson shook his head. “This isn’t making much sense—”

  “I’m telling it wrong.” She screwed up her eyes and took a deep breath. “Erasmus, let me start again?”

  “For you, anything.” He smiled briefly.

  “Okay.” She opened her eyes and exhaled. “The Clan exists as a family business, trading between worlds. A group of us—several hundred—believe that we have irrevocably fouled up our relationship with the world of the United States. That the United States military will soon have the power to attack the Gruinmarkt. Nowhere in the world the Clan lives in is safe. We are fairly certain that the US military doesn’t know about your world, or at least has no way of reaching it directly—you can’t get there from here without going via the Gruinmarkt. So I’ve got a proposal for you. We need somewhere to live—somewhere relatively safe, somewhere we haven’t shat in the bed. Somewhere like New Britain. In return, we can offer you … well, my people have been busy grabbing all the science and engineering references they can get their hands on.

  “The United States is sixty to eighty years ahead of you, although it might as well be two hundred—we can’t promise to bridge that gap instantly, but we can show your engineers and scientists where to look. Right now you’ve got a hostile French empire off your shore. There are strategies and weapons technologies we can look up in the American history books that are decades ahead of anything the French—or your—navy can muster. And other stuff; see what their economists say, for example, or their historians.”

  “Ah.” Erasmus nodded to himself. “That’s an interesting idea.” He paused. “What do your aristocratic cousins say about this idea? You are aware that we have recently held a revolution against the idea of autocracy and the landed gentry…?”

  “The ones you’re worried about won’t be coming, Erasmus. We’re on the edge of a permanent split. The people who’re listening to me—the progressives—the United States had their revolution more than two hundred years ago, remember that history I gave you?” He nodded. “For decades, the Clan has been educating its children in the United States. I’m unusual only in degree—my mother went the whole way, and raised me there from infancy. There’s a pronounced split between the generation that has been exposed to American culture, education, and ideas, and the backwoods nobility of the Gruinmarkt; the Clan has found it increasingly hard to hold these two factions together for decades now. And those are the people I’d be bringing—those Clan members who’d rather be live refugees in a progressive republic than dead nobles clinging to the smoking wreckage of the old order. People whose idea of a world they’d like to live in is compatible with your party’s ideology. All they want is a reasonable expectation of being able to live in peace.”

  “Oh, Miriam.” Erasmus shook his head. “I would be very happy if I could offer you the assurance you want. Unfortunately”—sh
e tensed—“I’d be lying if I said I could.” He held out his hand towards her. She stared at it for a moment, then reached out and took it. “There is no certainty here. None. Those books you gave me, the histories of your America, they offer no reassurance. We are at war with an internal enemy who will show us no quarter if we lose, and our people are hungry, angry, and desperate. This is a governance of emergency. We hold the east coast and the west, and the major cities, but some of the small towns—” He shook his head. “The south, the southern continent, the big plantations there—the fighting is bloody and merciless. You shouldn’t expect aid or comfort of us, Miriam. It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better. One of your American wise men said, the tree of liberty has to be watered with the blood of patriots. He wasn’t exaggerating. My job is to, to try and hide what goes into the watering can. To put a good face on murder. You shouldn’t expect too much of me.”

  Miriam stared at him for a long moment. “All right.” She pulled on his hand gently. “Let’s forget the living-in-peace bit. Can you protect us if we deliver? During the crisis, I mean. We help you develop the industrial mechanisms to defeat your external enemies. Can you, in return, keep the police off us?”

  “The police, Reynolds and his Internal Security apparatus—” His expression clouded. “As long as I’m not arrested myself, that I can manage. I’ve got leverage. Bentley and Crowe owe me, Williams needs my support—but best if it comes from the top, though, from Sir Adam and with the approval of the steering committee of the People’s Council. Would be best if we kept it under wraps, though, especially if your first task is to build new factories for the war effort. Hmm.”

  There was a creak from outside the morning-room door, then a throat-clearing: “Be you folks decent?”

  Erasmus’s head whipped round. “Yes, everything is fine,” he called.

  “Just so, just so.” It was Frank, the unseen bodyguard. He sounded amused.

  “You can go away now,” Erasmus added sharply.