The Trade of Queens (36 page)

*   *   *

Huw's first inkling that something was wrong came when the streetcar he Brilliana were returning on turned the corner at the far end of the high street and came to a jolting stop. He braced against the handrail and looked round. “Hey,” he began.

“Get
down
,” Brill hissed. Huw ducked below the level of the railing, into the space she'd just departed. She crouched in the aisle, her bag gaping open, her right hand holding a pistol inside it. “Not a stop.”

“Right.” Taking a deep breath, Huw reached inside his coat and pulled out his own weapon. “What did you see?”

“Barricades and—”

He missed the rest of the sentence. It was swallowed up in the familiar hammering roar of a SAW, then the harsh, slow thumping of some kind of heavy machine gun. “
Shit.
Let's bail.” He raised his voice, but he could barely hear himself; the guns were firing a couple of blocks away, and he flattened himself against the wooden treads of the streetcar floor. Brill looked at him, white-faced, spread-eagled farther back along the aisle. Then she laid her pistol on the floor and reached into her handbag, pulling out the walkie-talkie. Fumbling slightly, she switched channels. “Charlie Delta, Charlie Delta, flash all units, attack in progress on Zulu Foxtrot, repeat, attack in progress on Zulu Foxtrot. Over.”

The radio crackled, then a voice answered, slow and shocky: “Emil here, please repeat? Over.”

“Shit.” Brill keyed the transmit button: “Emil, get Helge out of there right now! Zulu Foxtrot is under attack. Over and out.” She looked at Huw: “Come on, we'd better—”

Huw was looking past her shoulder, and so he saw the head of the IS militiaman climbing the steps at the rear of the carriage before Brilliana registered that anything was wrong. Huw raised his pistol and sighted. The steps curled round, and the blackcoat wasn't prepared for trouble; as he turned towards Huw his mouth opened and he began to raise one hand towards the long gun slung across his shoulder.

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?”

“Yes. But Josh and Mark are waiting down in the shop and his men won't get past them silently—”

“Reynolds has the Lee family working for him: or some of them.” She held up a hand, then stood still, listening.

“What are you—”

She walked across to the window casement and looked out along the alley, keeping her body in the shadows. “Do you hear a steamer?” she asked quietly.

“No. Why?”

“Because we
should
be hearing one by now.” She grimaced. “Emil and Klaus were just round the corner. Do you have some way of calling your bodyguards?”

“The shop bell-pull in the hall—it works both ways. What are you thinking?” He pitched his voice low.

“That we're very isolated right now. I may be jumping at shadows, but if Reynolds is raiding my house, why isn't he here?”

“Oh dear.” Erasmus returned to the sideboard. “In that case, we'd better go.” A muffled click, and he turned around, holding a small pepperpot pistol. A barely glimpsed gesture made it vanish into a sleeve or a pocket. “For once, I'm not going to let you go first.”

“I don't think”—they collided in front of the doorway—“so?”

“My apologies.” Looking her in the eye, Erasmus added, “It would be best if my bodyguards saw me first.”

“Maybe.” Miriam stepped aside reluctantly. He crossed the hall and turned the key, then pulled the front door open as she followed him.

“Stop or I shoot!” Erasmus froze in the doorway. The teenager on the landing kept his pistol in Burgeson's face, but went wide-eyed as he looked past the older man and saw Miriam. “What are
you
doing here?”

Heart in mouth, she looked the youth in the eye: “Point the gun at someone else, Lin, or I will be
very angry
with you.”

“I'm not supposed to do that.” His voice was shaky. “I'm supposed to kill everyone in this apartment.”

“Who told you to do that?” Miriam asked quietly.

“The man Elder Huan told me to obey without question.” Erasmus stood stock-still as Lin stepped back a pace and lowered his pistol to waist level. “I didn't know you'd be here,” he added, almost petulantly.

Pulse hammering, Miriam took a step forward and placed a hand on Erasmus's shoulder. “Everything is going to be all right,” she said quietly. “Lin, I want you to meet Mr. Burgeson. He's a, a friend of mine.” She could feel his shoulder through the cloth of his jacket, solid and real and seeming to her as delicate as a fine bone-china teacup caught in midfall; she felt faint, this was so close to Roland's end. “I will never forgive you if you kill him.”

Lin nodded. “I am dishonored either way. But I won't shoot him. For your sake.” His elders had once sent Lin to kill Miriam. She, capturing him, had not only spared him, she'd sent him back to them with a truce offer.

“Did the man who sent you here wear a black coat, by any chance? A party commissioner called Reynolds?”

Lin shook his head. “Oh no,” he said earnestly. “The doctor sent me.” His nostrils flared with evident disdain: “Dr. ven Hjalmar.”

“Would someone,” Erasmus said quietly but forcefully, “explain to me what exactly is happening?”

“I think I can put it together,” said Miriam. “Lin, Dr. ven Hjalmar is working with Commissioner Reynolds, isn't he? No need to confirm or deny anything—your brother and I had a conversation.”

Lin nodded. “I was sent to remove a, a party radical who was opposed to our ends, in the doctor's words.” He stared at Erasmus. “What will you do now?”

“Have you met Stephen Reynolds?” Erasmus asked quietly. “He isn't one for whom loyalty is a two-way street.”

“I've discussed this with James,” said Miriam. “Lin, I've been negotiating a, a deal with Mr. Burgeson here. It's similar to the arrangement your elders came to with the security commissioner.”

“The difference is, I don't send death squads to murder my rivals,” Erasmus added.