“Delta Charlie, please copy.” Brill had her radio out. “I need a ship class identifying. HMS Burke, Bravo Uniform Romeo—” She finished, waited briefly for a reply, then slid the device away, switching it to silent as the streetcar stopped, swaying slightly as passengers boarded and alighted.
“Was that entirely safe?”
“No, but it’s a calculated risk. We’re right next to the harbor and if anyone’s RDFing for spies they’ll probably raid the ships’ radio rooms first; they don’t have pocket-sized transmitters around here. I set Sven up with a copy of the shipping register. He says it’s a prison ship. Currently operated by the Directorate of Reeducation. That would be prisons.” She frowned.
“You don’t know that it’s here for us.” Huw glanced at the staircase again as the streetcar began to move.
“Would you like to bet on it?”
“No. I think we ought to head back.” Huw reached out and took her hand, squeezed it gently.
She squeezed back, then pulled it away. “I think we ought to make sure nobody’s following us first.”
“You think they might try to pick us up…?”
“Probably not—this sort of action is best conducted at night—but you can never be sure. I think we should be on guard. Let’s head back and tell Helge. It’s her call—whether we have to withdraw or not, whether Burgeson can come up with a security cordon for us—but I don’t like the smell of that ship.”
* * *
Brilliana and Huw had been away from Miriam’s house for almost an hour. Miriam herself had left half an hour afterwards. An observer—like the door-to-door salesman who had importuned the scullery maid to buy his brushes, or the ticket inspector stepping repeatedly on and off the streetcars running up and down the main road and curiously not checking any tickets—would have confirmed the presence of residents, and a lack of activity on their part. Which would be an anomaly, worthy of investigation in its own right: A household of that size would require the regular purchase of provisions, meat and milk and other perishables, for the city’s electrical supply was prone to brownouts in the summer heat, rendering household food chillers unreliable.
An observer other than the ticket inspector and the salesman might have been puzzled when, shortly before noon, they disappeared into the grounds of a large abandoned house, its windows boarded and its gates barred, three blocks up the street and a block over—but there were no other observers, for Sir Alasdair’s men were patrolling the overgrown acre of Miriam’s house and garden and keeping an external watch only on the approaches to the front and rear. “If you go outside you run an increased risk of attracting attention,” Miriam had pointed out, days earlier. “Your job is to keep intruders out long enough for us to escape into the doppelganger compound, right?” (Which was fenced in with barbed wire and patrolled by two of Alasdair’s men at all times, even though it was little more than a clearing in the back woods near the thin white duke’s country retreat.)
Sir Alasdair’s men were especially not patrolling the city around them. And so they were unaware of the assembly of a battalion of Internal Security troops, of the requisition of a barracks and an adjacent bonded warehouse in Saltonstall, or the arrival on railroad flatcars of a squadron of machine-gun carriers and their blackcoat crew. Lady d’Ost’s brief radio call-in from the docks was received by Sven, but although he went in search of Sir Alasdair to give him the news, its significance was not appreciated: Shipping in the marcher kingdoms of the Clan’s world was primitive and risky, and the significance of prison ships was not something Sir Alasdair had given much thought to.
So when four machine-gun-equipped armored steamers pulled up outside each side of the grounds, along with eight trucks—from which poured over a hundred black-clad IS militia equipped with clubs, riot shields, and shotguns—this came as something of a surprise.
Similar surprise was being felt by the maintenance crew at the farm near Framingham, as the Internal Security troops rushed the farmyard and threw tear-gas grenades through the kitchen windows; and in a block of dilapidated-looking shops fronting an immigrant rookery in Irongate—perhaps more there than elsewhere, for Uncle Huan had until this morning had every reason to believe that Citizen Reynolds was his protector—and at various other sites. But the commissioner for internal security had his own idea of what constituted protection, and he’d briefed his troops accordingly. “It is essential that all the prisoners be handcuffed and hooded during transport,” he’d explained in the briefing room the previous evening. “Disorientation and surprise are essential components of this operation—they’re tricky characters, and if you don’t do this, some of them will escape. You will take them to the designated drop-off sites and hand them over to the Reeducation Department staff for transport to the prison ship. I mentioned escape attempts. The element of surprise is essential; in order to prevent the targets from raising the alarm, if any of them try to escape you should shoot them.”
Reynolds himself left the briefing satisfied that his enthusiastic and professional team of Polis troops would conduct themselves appropriately. Then he retired to the office of the chief of polis, to share a lunch of cold cuts delivered from the commissary (along with a passable bottle of Chablis—which had somehow bypassed the blockade to end in the polis commissioner’s private cellar) and discuss what to do next with the doctor.
* * *
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.
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