Heads nodded. Many of them had been at that particular meeting.
“You probably think I asked you here today because a lot has happened in the past year. In particular, that plan is dead in the water. I’m not going to assign blame or complain about it. Rather, I’d like to describe the situation we face right now, and propose a new plan. It’s drastic, because we’re in a bad position, but I think we can make it work. It’ll mean major changes to the way we live, but if we go through with it”—she shrugged—“we’ll be in a better position, going forward.” Too much padding, she thought nervously.
She leaned over the laptop—sitting on a lectern borrowed from the shrine to the household deities—and tapped the space bar. PowerPoint was running, but the projector—“Someone check that—”
Huw poked at the projector. “It’s on,” he confirmed. A moment later the screen beside her (a bleached, lime-washed canvas stretched flat within a monstrously baroque gilt picture frame) flickered to life.
“Okay.” Miriam focused on her notes. She’d spent almost twelve hours working on this presentation, far less than the subject deserved but as much as she’d been able to steal between her other duties over the past week. “Here’s what we know for sure: Almost ten months ago, Sir Matthias, who had been participating in at least one little conspiracy against his grace the duke, vanished. We’ve subsequently learned that he handed himself in to the DEA in return for immunity”—shocked muttering from the back of the room told her that not everybody present had known even that much—“and the DEA handed him on to some kind of black intelligence team called the Family Trade Organization. They’re the folks behind the series of raids that shut down the east coast network. A number of us have been compromised, including myself and her grace my mother. FTO subsequently captured at least two of our number and coerced them to act as mules, and at least one of their agents was in the grounds of the Summer Palace earlier this year when the pretender made his bid for the succession.”
She paused. The muttering hadn’t died down. “Can you save it for later?” she called.
“Silence!” This a deep bellow from Sir Alasdair, at the back corner of the room. “Pray continue, milady.”
“Thank you. . . . As I was about to say, anything we decide to do now has to take account of the facts that the US government is aware of us; considers us to be a threat; has developed at the very least a minimal capability to send operatives over here; and we can presume that the explosion at the Hjalmar Palace was also their work. And the news doesn’t get any better from there. Um.”
Next slide. “Now, I’m going to assume that we are all familiar with the long-lost cousins and the rediscovery of their, ah, home world. Before his illness, his grace the duke observed that one extra world might be an accident, but two were unlikely to be a coincidence; accordingly, he tasked Sir Huw here with conducting some preliminary research into the matter. What Sir Huw established, very rapidly, was that our early attempts to use the cousins’ variant knotwork design on the east coast in the United States had failed because of a doppelgangering effect of some kind. The cousins’ knot-work does, in fact, work, if you go far enough south and west. The world Sir Huw and his fellows discovered was—well, we don’t know that it’s uninhabited, but the presence of ruined buildings suggests that it used to be inhabited. Now it’s cold; Maryland is sub-arctic, with pine forests, and there’s residual radioactivity around the ruins—” She paused again, as the chatter peaked briefly. “Yes, this is, was, a high-tech world. Very high-tech.”
She ran the next slide. A photograph of a shattered white dome on a forested hillside. Fast forward again: structures inside the dome, indistinct in the gloom but clearly showing how enormous it was. Next slide: a sealed metal door set in a concrete wall. “On the other side of this door, Sir Huw discovered hard vacuum.” Next slide: a view down into the valley, thick mist swirling around the crack in the dome’s side. “A door into an apparently endless vacuum. The cloud you’re looking at is condensation where the air pressure around the dome drops. It’s too dangerous to approach closer, or we’d have gone back to try and seal it—our people were lucky to get away alive—but it’s not any kind of vacuum pump I’ve heard of. Our best guess is that it’s a gate that maintains a permanent connection between two worlds, rather than the transient connection we make when we world-walk. But we have no idea how it works or why there’s no, uh, world there. Maybe there used to be and the gate needs to be anchored in some way? We don’t know.”
The chatter had subsided into a stunned silence. Miriam glanced round the shocked faces in front of her. “Sir Huw has also conducted some topological analysis on the family knotworks,” she said forcefully. “He generated a series of variants and checked them—not to world-walk, but to see if he could feel them. He generated them using Mathematica. It turns out that the family knots can be derived by following a fairly simple formula, and there are three constants that, if you vary them, give rise to different knots that give him the family headache.” Next slide: a polynomial equation. “Apparently, this is the key to our ability—it’s the Alexander polynomial describing the class of knots to which ours belong. No, I don’t understand it either, but it turns out that by tweaking some of these coefficients we get different knots that include the two we already know of.
“Any given knot, starting in any given world, seems to act as a binary switch: Focus on it and you can walk from your starting world into a single destination determined by the knot you use.”
Someone had thoughtfully placed a wine goblet by her laptop. Miriam paused to take a sip.
“There’s more. The conventional wisdom about how much we can carry, about the impossibility of moving goods using a carriage or a wheelbarrow? It’s somewhat . . . wrong. It’s true that you can’t easily carry a larger payload, but with careful prior arrangement and some attention to insulators and reducing contact area you can move about a quarter of a ton. Possibly more, we haven’t really pushed the limits yet. I suspect that this was known to the postal service but carefully kept quiet prior to the civil war; the number of world-walkers who’d have to cooperate to establish a rival corvée, independent of our Clan authorities, is much smaller than the conventional wisdom would have it. If this was widely known it would have made it harder to control the young and adventurous, and consequently harder to retain a breeding population. So the knowledge was actually suppressed, and experimentation discouraged, and during the chaos of the civil war everyone who knew the truth was murdered. Maybe it was a deliberate strategy—knowledge is power—or just coincidence, or accident. It doesn’t matter; what I want to impress on you is that there are big gaps in our knowledge, and some of them appear to have been placed there deliberately. Only we’ve begun to piece things together, thanks to the recent destabilization. And the picture I’m building isn’t pretty.”
She hit the key for the next slide. “You heard—a year ago you heard—my views on the Clan’s business and its long-term viability. Smuggling drugs only works as long as they stay expensive, and as long as the people you’re smuggling them past don’t know what’s going on. We’ve seen evidence of a technology to build gates between worlds, and if there’s one thing the US government is good at, it’s throwing money at scientific research and making it stick. They know we’re here, and I promise you that right now there is a national laboratory—hell, there are probably ten—trying to work out how world-walking works. Worst case, they’ve already cracked the problem; best case . . . we may have years rather than months. But once they crack it, we, here in the Gruinmarkt, we’re finished. Those people can send two million tons of heavy metal halfway around the world to kick in doors in Baghdad, and we’re right on their doorstep.”
She paused to scan the room again. Forty pairs of eyes were staring at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. Her stomach knotted queasily. “I think we need to get used to the idea that it’s over. We can’t stay here indefinitely; we don’t have the leverage. Even if we can
negotiate some kind of peaceful settlement with them—and looking at the current administration I’m not optimistic—it’d be like sleeping with an elephant. If it rolls over in its sleep . . . well. We need some ideas about what we can do. New Britain is a first approximation of an answer: It’s got vastly more resources than the Gruinmarkt, Nordmarkt coastline, and we’ve got contacts there. I propose that we should collectively go into the technology-transfer business. We’ve got access to American libraries and know-how, and if we put our muscle into it we can jump-start a technological revolution in New Britain. Operating under cover in the United States has brought very mixed results—it’s encouraged us to act like criminals, like gangsters. I propose that our new venture should be conducted openly, at least in New Britain. We should contact their authorities and ask for asylum. We could do it quietly, trying to set up cover identities and sneak in—but it would be much harder now that they’re in the middle of a war and a major political upheaval. If we were exposed by accident, the first response would likely be harsh, just as it has been in the United States.
“But anyway. That’s why I invited you here today. Last year I told you that I thought the Clan’s business was unsustainable in the long term. Today, I’m telling you that it has become a lethal liability in the present—and to explore an alternative model. I can’t do this on my own. It’s up to you to help make this work. But if it doesn’t, if we don’t pull ourselves together and rapidly start up a new operation, we’re going to be crushed like bugs. Probably within a matter of months.”
She took another sip from her wineglass. “Any questions?” A hand waved at the back, then another. The first, Huw, was one of her plants, but the other . . . “Earl Wu? You have something to say?”
“Yes,” rumbled the Security heavy. “You are an optimist. You think we can change our ways, yes? We will either have to run from the Americans, or negotiate with them.”
Miriam frowned. “Isn’t that obvious? There’s nothing else—”
“—They will want to strike back,” Carl interrupted. “Our backwoods hotheads. They are used to power and they do not spend enough time in America to understand how large the dragon is that they think they have cornered.” He tapped his forehead. “I got my education in the US Marine Corps. And I know these idiots, the ones who stayed home.”
“But how can they strike back?” Miriam stared at him. Brooding and grim as a warrior out of a Viking saga, Carl exuded absolute certainty and bleakly pessimistic skepticism.
“They can aim a sniper’s rifle as well as anyone. And there are always the Clan’s special weapons.” A ripple of muttering spiraled the room, rapidly ascending in volume. “Whose principle military value lies in not using them, but the conservatives have never been good at subtle thinking.”
“The Clan’s—” Miriam bit her tongue. “You’ve got to be joking. They wouldn’t dare use them. Would they?”
“You need to talk to Baron Riordan,” said Carl. “I can say no more than that. But I’d speak to him soon, your majesty. For all I know, the orders might already have been signed.”
It was early evening; the store had closed to the public two hours ago, and most of the employees had long since checked out and gone to do battle with the rush hour traffic or the crowds on the subway. The contract cleaners and stock fillers had moved in for the duration, wheeling their handcarts through the aisles and racks of clothing, polishing the display cases, vacuuming the back offices and storerooms. They had a long, patient night’s work ahead of them, as did the twoman security team who walked the shop floor as infrequently as they could. “It creeps me out, man,” Ricardo had explained once when Frank asked him. “You know about the broad who killed herself in the third floor john ten years ago? This is one creepy store.”
“You been drinking too much, man,” Frank told him, with a snort. “You been listenin’ to too many ghost stories, they ain’t none of your business. Burglars, that’s your business.”
“Not slipping and breaking my fool neck on all that marble, that’s my business,” Ricardo grumbled. But he tried to follow Frank’s advice all the same. Which was why he wasn’t looking at the walls as he slouched, face downturned, past the rest rooms on the third floor, just as the door to the men’s room gaped silently open.
D.C. played host to a whole raft of police forces, from embassy guards to the Metro Police to the secret service, and all of them liked to play dress-up from time to time. If Ricardo had noticed the ghost who glided from the rest room doorway on the balls of his feet, his first reaction might have been alarm—followed by a flood of adrenaline-driven weak-kneed shock as he registered the look: the black balaclava helmet concealing the face, the black fatigues, and the silenced pistol in a military holster.
But Ricardo did not notice the mall ninja stepping out into the gallery behind him. Nor did he notice the second man in SWAT-team black slide out of the toilet door, scanning the other way down the aisle between knitware and ladies’ formals with his pistol. Ricardo remained oblivious—for the rest of his life.
The first intruder had frozen momentarily in Ricardo’s shadow. But now he took two steps forward, drawing a compact cylinder from his belt. One more step, and Ricardo might have noticed something for he tensed and began to turn; but the intruder was already behind him, thrusting hard.
The security guard dropped like a sack of potatoes, twitching as the illegally overcharged stunner pumped electricity through him. At the thud, the second intruder twitched round hastily; but Ricardo’s assailant was quick with a hand signal, and then a compact Syrette. He bent over the fallen guard and picked up his left hand, then slid the needle into a vein on the inside of the man’s wrist and squeezed the tube. Finally he looked round.
“Clear,” said his companion.
“Help me get this into the stalls and position him.”
Together they towed Ricardo—eyes closed, breathing slowly, seemingly completely relaxed—back into the men’s room. A quick crisis conference ensued.
“You sure about this?”
“Yes. Can’t risk him coming round.”
“Shit. Okay, let’s get him on the seat and make this look good. On my word—”
“God-on-a-stick, he’s heavy.”
“Roll his sleeve up, above the elbow, while I find the kit.”
“You’re really going to do this.”
“You want to explain to the earl why we didn’t?”
“Good point. . . .”
There was a janitor’s trolley in front of the row of washbasins, with a large trash bin and storage for cleaning sundries. Drawing on a pair of disposable gloves, the second intruder retrieved some items from one of the compartments: a tarnished Zippo lighter, a heat-blackened steel spoon, a syringe (already loaded with clear liquid), and a rubber hose.
“Right, let’s do this.”
Ricardo twitched slightly and sniffed in his sleep as the men in black set up the scene. Then the syringe bit cold into his inner arm. “Wuh,” he said, dozily.
“Hold him!”
The first intruder clamped his hands around Ricardo’s shoulders; but the guard wasn’t awake enough to put up any kind of struggle. And after drawing blood, his executioner was finished. The intruders stepped back to examine their handiwork: the ligature around the upper arm, the empty syringe, the addict’s works on the floor by his feet.
“Shit. Never had to do that before.”
“Neither have I. Easier than a hanging, isn’t it?”
“Uglier, maybe. Let’s get this shit over with.”
Leaving the cubicle and its mute witness behind, the two men removed their masks and gloves and unhooked their holsters, stowing them in the janitor’s cart. “Okay, we’ve got six minutes before his number two notices that he hasn’t finished his round—if we’re unlucky. Let’s go find the freight elevator and get out of here.”
Intruder number one wheeled the heavy janitor’s cart out of the toilet block while his partner stood watch. This was the riskie
st part of the procedure: The security guard was a known quantity, and one they’d been prepared for, but if they ran into a real cleaner they’d have to play things by ear. Too many disappearances in one night and someone, in the morning, might think to ask urgent questions. But they didn’t run into anyone as they wheeled the cart over to the unmarked door leading to the service passages behind the shop floor, and the battered and scraped freight elevator arrived without undue fuss.
The sales floors—the sections of the store open to the public—occupied the first through fifth floors, but it was an eight-story building. The upper levels housed a restaurant, then administrative offices and storage rooms for stock and old documents. When the elevator stopped on the eighth floor, intruder number one was the first to exit. He glanced both ways along the empty corridor. “Clear.”
“Alright, let’s shift this.”
Together they wheeled the cart along the corridor towards the building’s northeast edge. Most of the rooms on this level were offices, prized by the store managers for their view of Penn Avenue; none of these would do. But where there are offices there are also facilities—mail rooms, sluices for the janitors, storerooms. And presently the intruders found what they were looking for: a locked door which, once they opened it using the guard’s master key, proved to conceal a small, cluttered closet stacked with anonymous brown cardboard boxes. The odor of neglect hung over them like a mildewed blanket. “This one’s perfect—hasn’t been cleaned in weeks.”
“Good, let’s get this thing in here. . . .”
Together they manhandled the cart into the room, then busied themselves moving and restacking the boxes, which proved to be full of yellowing paper files. By the time they finished, the cart was nearly invisible from the doorway, concealed behind a stack of archives. “Okay, setup time. Let’s see. Epoxy glue first . . .”
Intruder number one busied himself applying fat sticks of epoxy putty to the wheels of the cart. By the time he finished, anyone attempting to remove it would find the wheels more than reluctant to budge, another mild deterrent to anyone wondering what an abandoned janitor’s cart was doing in the back of a storeroom. Then intruder number two went to work on the contents of the trash can, with a pen-sized flashlight and a checklist with an olive drab cover bearing the words TOP SECRET.
The Revolution Business Page 31