Charles Stross - MP 6 -The Trade of Queens

"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.

A moment later Miriam heard a heavy tread descending the stairs, no longer stealthy. She looked at Erasmus. "Does he think we're—"

Erasmus looked back at her. "I don't

know

he thinks that, but it would make a good cover story, wouldn't you agree?"

"If we—" She stopped, feeling her ears heat.

Sitting on the sofa, holding hands.

She hadn't given much thought to that sort of thing—not since Roland's death. She let go of his fingers hastily.

"I'll need to make inquiries," said Erasmus. He let his hand fall. "Meanwhile, that big house you bought—I'll see it's left alone. If you follow me."

Miriam swallowed. "How long?" she asked, trying to regain control.

"You called me back from a, a marketing campaign. I'll have to see it's running smoothly. Then report to the Council, and talk to certain people. It could take months."

"I'm not sure we've got months."

"If you can come up with concrete proposals, I can probably hasten the process. Nothing too amazing, but if you can think of something concrete: smaller telautographs, better aircraft engines . . . ?"

"We can do that." Miriam swallowed. "I can have a written proposal ready next week."

That sort of target should be easy enough,

she thought: Someone had mentioned a flyer in the Clan who'd smuggled an ultralight into the Gruinmarkt against orders.

Find him, tell him what's needed, and pull the trigger.

Even a Second World War–era fighter plane would make an impressively futuristic demo in the skies above New London. "Let's meet here again. Next week?"

He nodded conspiratorially. "Come at the same time. I'll have something for you."

"I'll do that," she said automatically, then thought,

What?

"What kind of something?"

"Documents. A warrant pass. A tele number to call on." Erasmus rose to his feet, then offered her a hand. She took it, levering herself out of the collapsed cushion.

"Do you really think Frank believes we're having an affair?"

He leaned close to her ear. "Frank reports regularly to Oswald Sartorius, who is secretary in charge of state intelligence. He doesn't realize I know, and I would appreciate your not telling him. It would be safest for you if Oswald thinks we are having an affair; that way you need only worry about being arrested if he decides to move on me, and he will believe you to be of more value alive than dead. If he learns you represent a power center . . . Oswald wants what's best for state intelligence; he is no more dangerous than a shark, as long as you stay out of the water."

Miriam froze, feeling his breath on her cheek. "Is it that bad?"

"I don't know." He sounded uncertain. "So please be careful."

"You're the second person who's said that to me today." It was disturbing: It meant more to her than she'd anticipated.

"You be careful too."

"I will be." He gestured at the door. "After you. . . ."

BEGIN PHONE TRANSCRIPT

(Groggy.) "Yes? Who is this?"

"Sir? This is BLOWTORCH. Duty officer speaking. Can you confirm your identity, please?"

(Pause.) "I'm KINGPIN. Is this line secure—"

"Not yet sir, if you'd like to press button four on your secure terminal now—"

(Click.) "Okay, I'm scrambling. What time—Jesus, this had better be good. What's the call, son?"

"Sir, we've, uh, there's a medical alert over WARBUCKS."

"It's definitely medical? The usual problem?"

"Sir, it may be worse this time. Don Ensenat says it would be best if you were up and alert—"

"Damn. How bad is it?"

"Sir, we have, uh, the cardiac crash team are trying to resuscitate, but as of now WARBUCKS is medically unfit. They've got him in transit to PIVOT and there's an operating theater standing by, but it doesn't look good. Sir, we're trying to contact Chief Justice Scalia as per the new continuity of government provisions but it's four in the morning in New York where he's—"

"Son. Stop right there." (Rustling.) "I'm just waking up here. I'll be in the operations center in five minutes: Get a team ready to take me to PAVILION, ready to leave in fifteen. Keep me informed if there's any change in WARBUCKS's condition, if he recovers or . . . not."

"Yes, sir."

"He'll hang in there. He's a tough old bird."

"I sure hope so, sir. Hell of a thing. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, son, just get me that transport."

"Thank you sir. Goodbye and God bless."

(Click.)

(Softly.) "Christ on a crutch."

END PHONE TRANSCRIPT

"Ah, Erasmus. Come in, sit down. How are you?"

"I'm well, citizen. Thank you." It was a small office, surprisingly cramped in view of the seniority of its occupant. Windowless, which was clearly one of the features that had commended it to Sir Adam's security detail. Burgeson lowered himself into a spindly court chair and laid his folio on the chief commissioner's desk. "There's no end of rushing about, it seems. I really ought to be back to my train, but, well. The matter of our alien friends came up again."

Sir Adam's expression blanked for a moment, assuming the vacuity of information overload. Then he blinked. "Ah. The Beckworth woman?"

"And her allies."

Sir Adam looked past Erasmus, to his bodyguard. "Seumas, if you could go and rustle up tea for two, please? I think we may be a while." He paused until the stout fellow had left the room. "I've got a session of the defense policy review board at three, but I can give you half an hour right now. Will that suffice?"

"I hope so." Erasmus held his hands together to keep from fidgeting. "They've got more than gold, as I believe I told you; did you have time to read the book?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. . . ." The chief commissioner removed his spectacles and carefully laid them on the blotter in front of him. Gold-rimmed, they gleamed in the harsh radiance cast by the electrical chandelier overhead. "It was very strange. Erasmus, either this is a most remarkable confidence trick, or—"

Burgeson shook his head. "There's more than just books. I've seen some of their machines. Yes, they're very strange. Frighteningly advanced. They have guns that—I've seen a young lady with a gun the size of that pen box, Sir Adam, I've seen it mow down polis thugs like a sewing engine. A battery gun you could fit in your coat pocket."

"Aliens. With advanced technology. How much of a threat to us are they, in your estimate?"

Erasmus spread his hands wide. "I think they're an opportunity, if we handle them carefully."

"What kind of opportunity? And what kind of care do you have in mind?"

"They're in trouble, Sir Adam. Which gives us leverage. My understanding of their plight is admittedly incomplete, but you can rest easy: They are not from the United States and they did not invent these near-magical engines that they use. Rather, they are traders—ours is not the only world they can reach—and they have infiltrated the United States you read about and use it as a source of wealth. Mercantilists, in other words. They have historically been an irritant to their host—smugglers and criminals—and now the host has discovered their existence. Miss Beckstein is entangled in a progressive faction among them, modernizers and democrats if not actual levelers. They recognize the bankruptcy of their former position and would seek sanctuary. In return, they offer to—Miriam's term for it is