The Trade of Queens (28 page)

“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 Beckstein 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
technology transfer
. They can stealthily filch the secrets of the United States' engineers and scientists, and bring them to us for development. More: They have for years been training their children in modern management techniques.”

“Just so. Very well, how many of these refugees are they?”

“Miriam says two to three thousand, at the outside. Most of them cannot travel to the other world—there are only a few hundred who can—but they're blood relatives. Which suggests an angle, doesn't it?”

Sir Adam nodded. “What are they running from? Enemies at home, or this United States of America?”

“The latter. It appears they were careless and drew themselves to the attention of the authorities there. I have a distinct and unpleasant impression that the US authorities are building machines that can travel between other worlds, for purposes of invasion. In which case—”

“Hmm.”

“Indeed.”

“What do you intend to do with these people, Erasmus?”

“I think we have room for a couple of thousand refugees, and it's easy enough to be generous under the circumstances. We should keep them isolated and under wraps, of course. The ones who can't world-walk—as they call it—are as important as those who can: Apparently their children may acquire the trait. In the meantime, they can be used to compel cooperation. Sir Adam: I propose to use the world-walking refugees to acquire a library of scientific and technological material stolen from the United States. It may also be necessary to recruit human resources, doctors, skilled professionals, a library of experts: voluntarily if possible, but otherwise—”

“You're talking about abduction.”

The door opened: Seumas and a silent palace servant entered, bearing a tea trolley. Sir Adam and Erasmus waited patiently for them to leave; then Erasmus picked up where he'd left off.

“If necessary, and only in service to our war effort, but … yes, if push comes to shove. May I continue? I envisage setting up a network of design bureaus and academies around this library of the future. They will act as a shield around this resource, filtering it out into our own industries. The United States is, well … it's hard to say, but I think their world is between fifty and a hundred years ahead of us in some respects. We won't close the gap in a decade, or even two or three, because they're moving forward as well. But we can close the gap
faster than the French
. If nothing else, knowing what played-out mines to avoid pouring treasure and sweat into will help us. This is a strategic resource, Sir Adam.”

The first citizen nodded, then raised one eyebrow. “You don't need to convince me further, Erasmus: It's preposterous on first hearing but the world is indeed a strange place. But let's see, when this hits the central committee … argue me this: Why
you
? Why Propaganda? Why not Industry? Give me ammunition.”

Erasmus picked up his teacup. It's rim clattered against the saucer it was balanced on. “Firstly, because they know me. Miss Beckstein trusts me, and she is their figurehead or leader or at least highly influential among them. These people are not beholden to us and we can't hope to corral them if they take fright. Secondly, because I'm
not
Industry. What we learn from these aliens will have effects everywhere—Industry is only the beginning of it. The Schools of Health, for instance, and the Directorates of Agriculture and Transportation—they'll all be affected. The complex I propose to establish will not be building battleships or aerodynes or setting up experimental farms; it will merely provide scientific information on these topics. It is indubitably a subdivision of Propaganda—Information. And then there's the final thing. This, this
Clan
, they are not the only people who travel between worlds. The United States are building time machines and may stumble upon us one day; and there may be others. Our treatment of these refugees will set a precedent for future diplomatic contacts with other worlds—and also our treatment of refugees from elsewhere on this one. Do you really think that hock-fist Brunner, or perhaps Oswald the Ear, would handle the nuances of disclosure effectively?”

Sir Adam's smile was frozen. “Of course they wouldn't. Erasmus, you have convinced me of most of your case, but you're wrong on this last point.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Because if these people are as valuable as you tell me, we can't possibly disclose their existence in public. Not now, not in twenty years' time. No, Erasmus. I'm counting on you to reel them in and put them in a deep, padded box—and build your institute and your complex of design bureaus and all the rest of the complicated machinery. We're not going to breathe a word of this to anyone, including the rest of the commission. Not the Peace and Justice puritans—they'll just find a way to use your world-travelers as a stick to stir up trouble. Not the Radicals: I've no idea what they'd do, but it'd probably be as stupid as those land-reform proposals they keep coming up with. And Foreign Affairs: If the Bourbon gets so much as a whisper that they exist, he can make them an offer that would bankrupt our coffers to match. No. This needs to be kept secret, so secret that nobody gets a whiff of their existence. And you're just the man to see that it happens, aren't you?

“These aliens must belong to us—and us alone. Make it so.”

*   *   *

The morning after the night before: Mike Fleming jolted abruptly awake to the sensation of the world falling away beneath his back. His eyes flickered open from uneasy, distorted dreams of pursuit, a panicky sense of disorientation tearing at his attention. He glanced sideways beneath half-closed lids; the light filtering in through the thin curtains showed him a floral print hanging on pastel-painted walls, strange furniture, someone else's decor. The jigsaw pieces of memory began to fill themselves in.
Paulie Milan's spare room.
They'd ordered in a Chinese meal, sat up late talking. There ensued an uneasy tap-dance as he—unused to hospitality, living for too long without that kind of life—borrowed towels and bedding, showered, prepared for an uneasy night's sleep. (Which largely consisted of taking off his shoes and pants, but keeping his pistol close to hand and checking out the yard from an unlit window before lying down atop the comforter.) It felt strange to be consigned to the guest room, like a one night stand gone weirdly askew down some strange dimension of alienation.
Don't sleep too deep,
he'd warned himself, only to close his eyes on darkness and open them in daylight.
Well damn, but at least nobody tried to cut my throat in the night
—

He was up and standing with his back to the wall beside the door, pistol in hand, almost before he realized he'd moved. Something was amiss. His nostrils flared as he breathed in, then held his breath, listening: not to the sound of someone moving in the bathroom, or clattering in the kitchen, or voices on the radio, talking.
Not.
He'd slept through the normal noises of another person's morning. What he'd noticed was their absence, and it was infinitely more disturbing.

Voices on the radio? Talking?
He could hear voices.
Who
—

Mike did a double take and closed his eyes. Tried to visualize the kitchen layout. Was there a—

Creak of a footstep on the landing. Then a tentative voice: “Mike? Are you awake yet?”

His muscles turned to jelly as he sagged, lowering the pistol. He'd been unaware of the tension in his neck and shoulders, the totality of focus, his heart hammering with a flashback to a cheap motel room in Tijuana that stank of stale cigarette smoke and claustrophobia. He pointed the gun at the floor beside him, letting its weight drag his wrist down. “Yeah?”

“We have a visitor. There's coffee in the kitchen. Do you want me to pour you one?”

Coffee plus visitor equals
—“Yes.” He glanced across the room to the bedside table where he'd left his holster. Coming down from the jittery adrenaline spike, he added, “I'll be down in a couple of minutes. Need to freshen up first.”

“Okay.” Paulie's footsteps receded down the stairs.

Mike let out a breath, quietly shuddering, still winding down. The radio, the sudden silence, whatever had triggered his ambush reflex—it was all right. Moving carefully, he placed the pistol beside the holster, then picked up his pants from where he'd hung them over the back of a chair.
A visitor
almost certainly meant one of Miriam's relatives. Paulette had admitted knowing a few of them: the ice princess, another woman called Brill. He dressed hurriedly, then slid the pistol in its holster into his trouser pocket, just in case. Not that he didn't trust Paulette—he trusted her enough to sleep under her roof—but experience had taught him not to make assumptions when dealing with the Clan.

He descended the stairs, carefully keeping his left hand on the rail, and glanced sideways through the kitchen doorway. The ice princess, Olga, was sitting at the breakfast bar drinking coffee. She nodded at him coolly. “Mr. Fleming.”

The kitchen radio was babbling headline chatter about someone in the hospital. His jaw tensed as he stepped inside the room. “Good morning.” He noticed Paulette leaning against the kitchen worktop, her eyes worried. “Someone mentioned coffee.” Paulette reached out and flicked off the radio as he glanced from side to side. A big leather shoulder bag gaping open on the table, something dark and angular inside it—she wouldn't come here unarmed—slatted blinds drawn down across the window onto the backyard—

“It's right here.” Paulette gestured at a mug on the breakfast bar. Mike walked over and pulled a stool out, then sat down awkwardly opposite the ice princess.

“How does it feel to be one of the most wanted people in the world?” he remarked.

“Why ask me? Surely you already know.” She kept a straight face, but the chill in her voice made his pulse speed.

“I didn't murder eighteen thousand people.”

“Neither did I,” said Olga. She took a mouthful of coffee, then put her mug down. “The people who did that are dead, Mr. Fleming. My people took them down. Do you have a
problem
with that?”

Mike opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“They didn't stop at detonating bombs in your capital city,” Olga added. “They tried to murder everyone who stood in their way. A coup attempt.” Her minute nod made his stomach shrink. “They tried to kill me, and Miriam, and everyone aligned with us. Luckily we had a tip-off. They failed; the last of the plotters was impaled yesterday morning.”