Charles Stross - MP 6 -The Trade of Queens

Huw pulled the trigger twice in quick succession. "Go!" he shouted at Brill. "Now!"

"But we're—" She flipped open the locket she wore on a ribbon around her left wrist, for all the world like a makeup compact.

More machine-gun fire in the near distance. Shouting, distant through tinnitus-fuzzed ears still ringing from the pistol shots. Huw shoved his sleeve up his arm and tried to focus on the dial of the handless watch, swimming eye-warpingly close under the glass. The streetcar rocked; booted feet hammered on the stair treads. Brilliana rose to a crouch on her knees and one wrist, then disappeared. Something round and black bounced onto the floor where she'd been lying, mocking Huw. He concentrated on the spinning, fiery knot in his eyes until it felt as if his head was about to explode; then the floor beneath him disappeared and he found himself falling hard, towards the grassy ground below.

Behind him, the grenade rolled a few inches, then stabilized for a second before exploding.

The man behind the desk was tall, silver-haired, every inch the distinguished patriarch and former fighter pilot who'd risen to lead a nation. But it was the wrong desk; and appearances were deceptive. Right now, the second unelected president of the United States was scanning a briefing folder, bifocals drooping down his nose until he flicked at them irritably. After a moment he glanced up. "Tell me, Andrew." He skewed Dr. James with a stare that was legendary for intimidating generals. "This gizmo. How reliable is it?"

Dr. James's cheek twitched. "We haven't made enough to say for sure, sir. But of the sixteen ARMBAND units we've used so far, only one has failed—and that was in the first manufactured group. We've got batch production down and we can swear to ninety-five-percent effectiveness for eighteen hours after manufacture. Reliability drops steeply after that time—the long-term storable variant under development should be good for six months and self-test, but we won't be able to swear to that until we've tested it. Call it a year out."

"Huh." The president frowned, then closed the folder and placed it carefully in the middle of the desk. "CARTHAGE is going to take sixty-two of them. What do you say to that?"

Is that it?

Dr. James lifted his chin. "We can do it, sir. The units are already available—the main bottleneck is training the air force personnel on the mobile biomass generators, and that's in hand. Also the release to active duty and protocol for deployment, but we're basically repurposing the existing nuclear handling protocols for that; we can relax them later if you issue an executive order."

I don't want one of our planes failing to transition and executing CARTHAGE over domestic airspace, son. That would be unacceptable collateral damage."

Dr. James glanced sidelong at his neighbor: another of the ubiquitous blue-suited generals who'd been dragged on board the planning side of this operation. "Sir? With respect I think that's a question for General Morgenstern."

The president nodded. "Well, General. How are you going to insure your boys don't fuck up if the doctor's mad science project fails to perform as advertised?"

The general was the perfect model of a modern military man: lean, intent, gleaming eyes. "Mark-one eyeball, sir: that, and radio. The pilot flying will visually ascertain that there are no landmarks in sight, and the DSO will confirm transition by checking for AM talk-radio broadcasts. We've done our reconnaissance: There are no interstates or railroads in the target zone, and their urban pattern is distinctively different."

"That assumes daylight, doesn't it?" The president had a question for every answer.

"No sir; our cities are illuminated, theirs aren't, it's that simple. The operation crews will be tasked with activating the ARMBAND units within visual range of known waypoints and will confirm that they're not in our world anymore before they button up."

"Heavy cloud cover?"

"Radio, sir. There's no talk radio in fairyland. No GPS signal either. No sir, they aren't going to have any problem confirming they're in the correct DZ."

The president nodded sagely. "Make sure they check their receivers before they transition. We don't want any systems failures."

"Yes sir. Is there anything else you want me to add?" Normally, Dr. James thought, handing the man a leading question like that might border on insolence, but right now he was in an avuncular, expansive mood; the bright and shiny gadgets were coming out of the cold warrior's toy box, and playing up to the illusion of direct presidential control over the minutiae of a strike mission was only going to go down well. A

very political general,

he told himself.

Watch him.

"I think there is." The president looked thoughtful. "Doctor. Can you have a handful more ARMBAND units ready two days after the operation? We'll want them fitting to a passenger aircraft suitable for giving some, uh,

witnesses,

a ringside seat. It's for the review stand at the execution—diplomatic witnesses to show the Chinese and the Russians what happens if you fuck with the United States. It'll need to be an airframe that's ready for the boneyard, it'll need a filtered air system, good cabin visibility, and nothing too sensitive for commie eyes. Except ARMBAND, but you'll be keeping the guests out of the cockpit. General, if you could get your staff to suggest a suitable aircraft and minute my office on their pick, I'll see you get an additional order via the joint command." He smiled alarmingly. "Wish I was going along with it myself."

Refugees

The walkie-talkie in Miriam's bag squawked for attention. "What's that?" Burgeson, startled, let go of her arm as she turned to the table.

"Bad news, I think." She pulled the radio out. "Mike Bravo, Mike Bravo, sitrep please, over."

A buzz of static, squelched rapidly: "Boss? Emil here. I just got a call from Delta Charlie. Zulu Foxtrot is under attack, repeat, the house is under attack. We're bringing the truck round, you need to get out now, over."

Miriam stared at Erasmus. "My house is under attack. Do you know anything about it?" She knew the answer before the words were finished: The widening of his eyes and the paleness of his face told her all she needed. "Damn. It's got to be Reynolds, hasn't it?"

"I need to get to the railway station." Erasmus stood up, unfolding sticklike limbs as he glanced at the window. "If he's doing this now, he means to be back in New London by nightfall, which means this is the start of something bigger. There's a Council of People's Commissioners—cabinet—meeting tomorrow morning. He'll either present the arrests as a fait accompli, and impeach me for treason and conspiracy on the spot, or go a step further and arrest the entire Mutual wing of the Council in the name of the Peace and Justice Committee. It'll be a coup in all but name: Either way, he takes me out and weakens Sir Adam enormously."

"What are you going to do?" Miriam positioned herself between Erasmus and the doorway. "Do you have a plan?"

"Yes, if I can get to the station." He smiled. "You should go into hiding, in your other world—they can't reach you there—"

"The hell I will." She picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder, then the walkie-talkie. "Emil, Mike Bravo here. I'm coming out with a passenger. We need a ride. Over." She pushed the door open. "What's at the station?"

"I have a train to catch. Once I'm on it, Reynolds can't touch me and can't stop me from telling the truth."

"A train—"

"My train." His smile widened, sharkishly. "Steve has

no idea

what I'm capable of doing with it."

"You'll have to tell me on the way." She paused, by the door. "Reynolds knows you're here, right?"