Dark State--A Novel of the Merchant Princes Multiverse

by Charles Stross

  “Yes, fucking paper. I know it’s old-fashioned and I know it’s going to be expensive at this short notice, but I don’t want to do it over the Internet. It’s like hanging out a sign saying ‘hack me here.’”

  “Oh, you tinfoil hat guys crack me up.” Fox relaxed visibly as he got a handle on where he thought Hulius was coming from. Paranoid clients were clearly something he understood all too well. “I didn’t figure you were afraid of the CIA setting you up for a drone strike.”

  “Don’t joke about that sort of thing,” Hulius said flatly. He decided to shut this down fast by feeding Fox some of the second-level cover story. “They don’t only target terrorists these days, and they’re more subtle than you think. They use all the forces of the state to back up their multinationals, just like the Russians and Chinese. They pay lip service to the free market, but if you try and outmaneuver them they’ll find a way to stash a kilo of heroin in your luggage while you’re changing flights in Singapore”—while most countries had decriminalized over the past few years, Singapore was still gleefully hanging drug couriers—“or even poison your toothpaste.” The best bit about the second-level cover story was that it was all true. The expansion of the Deep State and the outsourcing of security operations to corporate contractors had been accompanied by a huge wave of back-scratching and the subsequent diffusion of black ops techniques into the private sector. Outright bribery (officially illegal and fraught with difficulty in this brave new world of surveillance of banking arrangements) had been replaced by bullying and sabotage. It wasn’t an improvement.

  “Man, you’re really tense. Is it that bad?”

  “You have no idea.” Hulius paused for effect. “The sector of the GM rubber market my people are in is worth about five hundred million a year right now, but it’s poised to grow by a factor of ten in the next six years, and the bastards know it.” He grimaced fiercely. Fox looked duly impressed. “We’re determined to be the first to market, but there are people who don’t want to see that and they will happily put a spike in our wheels—or a bullet in my head, if it comes to it. All over the fucking share price. Hence the cloak and dagger.”

  “Well, now I understand,” said Fox. “Your secret is safe with me, my friend.”

  “It had better be, if you want the follow-on business. Will you stay for coffee?”

  “No, I must be going.” Fox sounded nervous, which was good. (The real purpose of the second-level cover story was to motivate Fox to keep his yap shut and his head down.) “Thank you for your confidence, Herr van Rijnt. And I hope the rest of your trip is uneventful.”

  “So do I,” Hulius said fervently. “So do I.”

  After Fox left, he dragged the heavy duffel bag through into the spare bedroom and unpacked the suit of body armor. Piece by piece he checked the fit of each segment, loosening and tightening straps as necessary. Laid it out, it covered the bed like the shed carapace of a cyborg Gregor Samsa. Next he unlocked the flat Peli gun case. The FN P90 personal defense weapon and accompanying Five-seveN pistol were unloaded, their magazines and spares empty. He spent the next hour carefully loading and checking them. (Both firearms used the same small-caliber ammunition.) He disassembled the guns again, inspected them and applied lubricant, then put them back together, installing their suppressors but leaving their magazines out for the time being.

  Finally he ate a microwave meal from the apartment’s refrigerator, set his phone’s alarm for six the following morning, showered, and bedded down in the other room.

  PHILADELPHIA, TIME LINE TWO, AUGUST 2020

  Gomez was taken by surprise when Rita strode into the control office wearing an oddly tailored tunic-and-trouser suit. “Where’s the Colonel?” she demanded.

  “Unavailable.” Gomez stared, too taken aback by her sudden arrival to upbraid her. “Where have you been? You haven’t reported in for three days.”

  “I’ve got two hours.” The girl sounded tense and uncharacteristically assured. “I really need to talk to the boss right now.” She held up a sealed envelope. “And get this to him.”

  “I said he’s unavailable.” Gomez pulled out her phone. “Undisclosed location, no specified ETA. What’s got your ass? Report.”

  “Not to you.” Rita shot right back. “Is there a secure phone in here? If the Colonel’s offline, I need to talk to Dr. Scranton instead.”

  “Not until you explain where—”

  “You’re not in my reporting chain, Sonia. I need to brief Colonel Smith or Dr. Scranton immediately and you’re obstructing me. I’ve got just under two hours here before I go back, unless I want to cause a diplomatic incident. Are you going to give me a secure voice terminal so I can report in, or are you looking forward to explaining yourself to the Colonel?”

  “Fuck you.” Gomez raised a finger, turned it into a gesture in the direction of a desk at the side of the office. “There’s the terminal. You get one call, then—”

  “Call Dr. Scranton then put me on the line if it makes you feel better.” Rita crossed her arms aggressively. Her sudden self-confidence made Gomez bristle.

  “I will do that, girl. You’d better be on the level.”

  A minute later Rita was holding the old-fashioned wired handset to her ear. “Rita, I’m in a meeting so let’s keep this brief. What do you have to report?”

  “I made contact and passed on the message, as ordered. I was then invited to stay and socialize.” Rita glanced across the room at Gomez, who wasn’t even bothering to pretend not to be listening. “Agent Gomez is present. Do you want me to continue?”

  “Go ahead.” Scranton’s tone was dry as dust. “Hand me over to her afterwards.”

  “Okay. Mrs. Burgeson and her husband are a major political power couple. They’re in the middle of a succession crisis right now, because their pres—sorry, their equivalent of a president, he has different powers—is dying of cancer. There’s no well-defined chain of succession because he’s been in charge since the revolution seventeen years ago. Everyone is walking on eggshells. Mr. Burgeson says that a reply will be forthcoming, but they’re delaying until the new head of state can sign off. In the meantime, he wants me to stick around as an observer—in public—on the understanding that I’ll tell you everything I’m allowed to see. My identity as his wife’s, uh, only surviving child, also has implications. If she publicly acknowledges me it can be used to open doors. Is this what you were hoping for?”

  “More or less. Very good, Rita. How long can you stay here for?”

  Rita glanced at the time display on the phone: “I’m expected back in an hour and a half. And I have a sealed letter for you or the Colonel. I was told it’s a written request for my attendance. And an invitation to a state funeral.”

  “You said their head of state is dying.” Scranton sounded thoughtful. “How is this expected?”

  “I was told if he lasts out the week they’ll be very surprised. He has terminal cancer and is being given palliative care. For the time being their executive arm is running on autopilot. Uh, I was also told this explicitly includes their nuclear weapons release authority. And I was told to tell you that they’ve got para-time strike and retaliation capability. They’re totes squirrelly about the possibility of some faction or other attempting a coup—the royalists, or possibly hard-liners within the regime.”

  “I see. Please hold on.” Dr. Scranton was silent for almost thirty seconds. “Very well. You’d better write up whatever you’ve got to report, then get back over there. Try to report in every two to three days in future. You can leave the letter with Gomez when you go. Now pass me over to her, I have some instructions for her.”

  “Okay.” Rita extended the handset to the other woman, who stared at it as if it was an angry hornet: “It’s for you.” She placed the sealed envelope on the desk as Gomez took the phone. “I need a clean tablet: I’ve got a report to write before I go back.”

  Rita was still peeling the plastic wrapper off the disposable tablet, preparing to type up a quick
summary, when Gomez handed the phone back to her. “Hey. You. The doctor wants to talk,” Gomez said, refusing to look her in the eye.

  Rita took the phone. “Yes?”

  “I have some instructions for you from SecState.” Rita tensed. What kind of meeting is she in? “Current thinking is that we would rather deal with a governing faction who understand us than with radical or disruptive elements who don’t. So we want you to cooperate with the Burgesons’ requests, within reason. If they want to publicize your existence as either Miriam Beckstein’s daughter or a direct special envoy from the United States, you should play along. However, remember that you aren’t a diplomat and do not represent the government—you’re just a courier and possibly an informal agent of influence—so you should not under any circumstances agree to any demands or requests on behalf of the government. If anyone makes such demands, tell them to write us a letter. Stay within their laws and keep your nose clean: you might be able to claim diplomatic immunity if you get into a sticky situation where someone is messing with you for political reasons, but we can’t back it up from here and you shouldn’t expect a get out of jail card. In event of civil unrest or serious threats, you have JAUNT BLUE capability. To make reporting easier you should take a clean tablet from the office supplies. They’ve got enough industrial espionage going that it’s not going to give them anything they don’t already know. Use it to write up notes and we’ll drain it whenever you bring it back over. Have you got all that?”

  “I think so. You’re setting me up as an agent of influence with the former Clan world-walkers, who are the faction within the Commonwealth government most associated with para-time activity?” Rita’s brow wrinkled. Across the room, Gomez frowned furiously.

  “Yes, that’s pretty much it. Goodbye and good luck.”

  The phone went dead, leaving Rita to stare at it: a dead lump of plastic in her hand. “I don’t understand this,” she subvocalized. Louder: “Okay, I’d better take this tablet, Sonia. Did she tell you that?”

  “Yes.” Gomez picked up the envelope. “I’ll see the Colonel gets this. Or Dr. Scranton, depending.”

  “Thank you.” Rita tried to smile, to walk the tension between them back down to something reasonable, but the other woman’s expression was stony. “I’d better be going. There’s a reception at seven and I’m expected to attend.”

  “Listen to you,” Gomez said coldly. “Forgotten your girlfriend already. Just go, Douglas, you’ve got a job to do.”

  BERLIN, TIME LINE TWO/THREE, AUGUST 2020

  Hulius rose before dawn and showered while the coffee machine burbled in the kitchen. It took an effort to stay centered. Today was going to be very busy, and he wouldn’t be human if he felt no anxiety or unease about everything that could go wrong. So he tried to focus on the liberating awareness that it was nearly over. Weeks of patient planning and positioning were coming to a head. If all went well, by this time tomorrow he’d be on board a ship in the Atlantic, heading back home to Elena and the girls with his defector safely delivered into the custody of the DPR’s debriefing officers.

  He dressed carefully in long underwear before he strapped on the body armor. Then he donned a loose shirt and combat pants to conceal the protective gear. The Five-seveN pistol went in a concealed holster in a modified hip pocket. The short-barreled P90 he carefully loaded and installed in a bulky messenger bag, the main compartment of which held a compact first aid kit and a sheath of documents. The butterflies in his stomach were a new and unwelcome side effect. After a bit he realized something strange: I’m afraid. I must be getting too old for this shit.

  A pang of worry intruded: Elena would be getting restive and anxious at the long silence, angry with Brill for taking her husband away for nearly a month with no communication. He’d seldom been away for this long before, and they’d argued afterward. Last time she’d been afraid that he’d been captured and was undergoing enhanced interrogation in some hideous dungeon. This time she’d be livid, although if the scheme worked she’d understand why it was necessary once the Princess went public. But she might not wait. And if Ellie got really mad, the consequences could be very bad indeed. She seemed content to be a wife and mother, happier with the role than his sister-in-law, anyway, but if they’d followed a slightly different path it could easily have been Ellie checking that the guns were properly loaded. And there I go again, wool-gathering. Hulius worked his arms into the sleeves of a fleece jacket, leaving it unzipped. Let’s get this over with.

  He picked up the messenger bag and slung it over his shoulder, drained his coffee, left the apartment, and walked to the BMW.

  The car started perfectly. Traffic was morning-heavy. He drove carefully, using the ritual as another distraction focus. It was too early for the schloss to be open to the public, but the car park was unlocked and he parked as close to the entrance as he could. A path around the side of the building led to a discreet servants’ entrance. He pulled out the 3-D printed key duplicates Fox had obtained. They turned in the lock: Now let’s hope he got the alarm code right, too.

  An urgent beeping started as soon as Hulius pushed the door open. He glanced around then spotted the alarm cabinet. Taking a deep breath, he punched in the five digit code: the beeping slowed, then the ARMED message on the small display panel flipped to CLEAR. He turned round and locked the door, then moved on into the museum. The disarmed burglar alarm would probably worry whoever opened up an hour hence, but his wasn’t the only vehicle left in the car park overnight. They’d probably assume the caretaker forgot to set the alarm when they closed up the evening before.

  Hulius headed for the janitor’s closet, messenger bag still slung over his shoulder. He world-walked to the forest, where it was raining lightly, so he cut short his rest period and jaunted immediately to the storeroom in Mme. Houelebecq’s finishing school. The familiar headache bit hard at his temples. He winced, wedged the door shut, took his prescribed dose, and sat down on a dust-sheeted chair to wait it out.

  An hour and a half passed. Outside his hiding place the young women awakened and conducted their morning ablutions, dressed for breakfast in the Hunter’s hall downstairs, then returned to their rooms. Most of them would then take themselves to their morning classes. But Elizabeth Hanover had other plans, plans that involved declaring herself to be sick and retiring to her rooms. Please be ready, he prayed. No surprises, let this be a routine extraction. Long habit pulled his hands through a genuflection to Lightning Child, a god from a now-dead land who he had barely believed in even as a child. Time to go.

  Hulius Hjorth stepped into the cold morning light, climbed the servants’ staircase, and marched briskly along the corridor to the Princess’s rooms. Seconds passed: he was alone between worlds, senses keyed up to a crystalline clarity. The flower arrangement on the side table was present. Good. He approached the door and quietly turned the key in the lock.

  “Oh! You made me jump.”

  The target was waiting in her day room, wearing the headscarf, long skirt, and buttoned-up coat of a Turkish woman. Hulius inclined his head. She looked at him in surprise, eyes wide at the sight of his strange attire. “Elizabeth Hanover? If you wish to leave, follow me. We need to be swift.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked, not moving.

  “You asked for extraction to New London,” Hulius said, as patiently as he could manage. “I am a courier from the Department of Para-historical Research.” A little white lie. “We are going to walk up the corridor to a staircase, then into a storeroom, and I will carry you across to a version of Berlin that your security guards have no access to. An aircraft is waiting for us there. Is that acceptable?”

  “I suppose”—her eyes glistened—“yes, yes it is.” Her chin rose. “Are you armed?”

  The tearing-cloth sound of the Velcro flap of his bag opening coincided with the slam of the door to the girl’s study room. “Halt!”

  Hulius turned, simultaneously reaching into the bag as he stepped between the girl and t
he doorway. Booted figures clattered out of the study, swearing as they collided in their enthusiasm to lay hands on him. Three men in guards’ uniforms, an officer raising a pistol and drawing breath to scream halt again—

  There was a loud triple-bang as he squeezed the trigger of the P90: and a deafening report as the officer discharged his revolver, recklessly shooting even though the woman he was sworn to protect was standing right behind Hulius—who staggered, gut-punched by the bullet. The guards went down in a flailing mass. “Come on.” He reached back and grabbed the target by the arm, took a lurching step forward, stepping over the dead or dying men. “Fast.”

  “You—you shot—” He could barely hear her over the ringing in his ears.

  “Do you still want to come?” He demanded. Her eyes were wide open, her expression shocked.

  “Yes!”

  “Then come quickly.” A bell began to clang. His ribs felt as if he’d been kicked by a horse. Something was broken: if not for the body armor he’d certainly be dead or dying. He dragged the target into the corridor. She wasn’t hurrying fast enough for his liking. “Through here.” The stairwell door gaped before him. He tugged her after him, trying not to gasp at the repeated jolts of fire as the devil played his ribcage like a xylophone with every step. There would be other guards, a detachment rushing in from the gate house. He turned and hurried the target down the short hall to the storeroom then through the door, grabbed her around her waist, noticing absently that her eyes were very dark, pupils wide. “Hold on,” he said, lifting and tensing past the breath-stopping pain in his ribs. He shoved his left wrist up past the back of her neck so that he could see the knotwork on the wristband. “Now—”

  Elizabeth squeaked. “You’re hurting me!”

  Hulius relaxed his grip, allowing her to slide down to the ground. His ribs were on fire and his head throbbed. It was raining gently, and the air smelled of resin and rotting humus. In the distance, a cuckoo called.

  “What—where—” She looked around, stunned.