Dark State

by Charles Stross

  “Good man.” She took in his key ring. “Well, go on, then.” But she showed no sign of leaving him unattended.

  Hulius unlocked the door. “I was to leave it in the cloaks,” he said quietly, looking around. “Ah, up there.” He boosted the bag up onto the shelf above the coat rack, gave it a shove to ensure that it was stable, then walked back into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind him. His heart hammered as he saw the woman watching him. She hadn’t moved, and her eyes narrowed as she watched him lock the door.

  “This is irregular,” she said. “Spare bags should have been delivered to the porter’s lodge.” She looked up at his face. “I think you’d better come with—” A bell rang, and she twitched away, looking toward the staircase. “Oh dear,” she said quietly, “I’m late.” She was clearly torn between a duty to be elsewhere and her suspicion at finding a strange man loose in the women’s quarters.

  “Ma’am.” Hulius bowed again. “By your leave, I need to return these keys to Captain Bertrand in person.” It was a total bluff, but taking the name of the Princess’s chief bodyguard in vain was all he could come up with. The alternative was to kill or disable this woman, whose only crime had been to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—a course of action that would be both reprehensible and counter-productive, for her disappearance would undoubtedly set up a hue and cry.

  “Captain Bertrand.” Her expression was calculating. “Very well, then. What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t.” Hulius drew himself up to attention. “Sergeant Brosz, my lady. At your service. May I have the pleasure of knowing my captor’s name so that I can include it in my report?”

  “Certainly! I am Madame Vishnevski, and I am running late for the geography tutorial that I am supposed to teach in the next period.” She bobbled him a shallow curtsey, with an impish smile, then brought her hands together appreciatively. “Very well, Sergeant, by all means go and report to the Captain. I assure you that the next time you come this way you will not go unnoticed, either. You are quite out-standing!” She winked at him, clearly quite taken by her own cleverness in deducing that he was here to probe the school’s security.

  “I will tell the Captain, I assure you,” Hulius said gravely. He turned and headed back toward the storeroom, feeling all the while as if gun sights were aimed at his back. Not seizing her in a headlock and rushing her ahead of him was one of the hardest things he’d ever done—that, or bolting and declaring the mission blown. But if the geography teacher went missing, continuing his mission would become impossible. By the time he reached the storeroom—less than a minute later—his back was beslimed with a cold sweat and his knees were weak with the aftermath of the adrenaline crash. He stepped inside, shoved the wedges back into position, and collapsed with his back against the door, breathing fast. For a moment his vision darkened. Pins and needles and a burning pain behind his eyes bespoke the unwisdom of mixing high-dose antihypertensives with the fight-or-flight reflex.

  That was entirely too close for comfort, he told himself, wiping the perspiration from his face. But he’d delivered the package: a disguise for Elizabeth during her brief exposure to time line two’s Berlin, and a final set of instructions. She was to breakfast as usual on the morrow, but should complain of stomach cramps and return to her rooms. At ten o’clock Hulius would return and, if the potted plant was present, he would knock on her door and politely invite her to follow him back to the storeroom. It combined the virtues of simplicity, and of not requiring him to penetrate Captain Bertrand’s security cordon outside the building. If anything went wrong, he could world-walk to safety at any point, the only risk being a sprained ankle in the pine forests of time line one if he had to jaunt from the second floor. At least, that had been the theory—right up until his encounter with Mme. Vishnevski.

  She was late for class, he reminded himself. And she bought my story. With luck, she’d forget about the incident. If not, she’d most likely tell Mme. Houelebecq, who might smell a rat—in which case she would write to the Captain, who would definitely smell a rat. But there’d be a jurisdictional argument. Madame was not happy about stationing soldiers among her girls (a position that Hulius, as a father himself, could appreciate). Probably nothing would be arranged before this time tomorrow. And if it was, the Princess would remove the plant pot, sending the signal to postpone.

  I’m going to have to go with it, Hulius decided. It would be better if he could bring everything forward, but he’d already delivered her instructions. From this point on, nothing could be permitted to go wrong.

  NEW LONDON, TIME LINE THREE, AUGUST 2020

  Another morning dawned. Rita had survived the recording session and a strained private dinner with Brilliana, unpacked a baffling array of costumes that had been delivered while she ate (No, they’re not costumes, she told herself, they’re just ordinary clothes in this time line.), then she’d spent a night tossing and turning sleeplessly. Now she was neatly turned out in an unfamiliar outfit that felt as formal as an interview suit, standing in the huge corner office of the man whom her birth mother had married—no, in this world he’s my stepfather—and she had run out of silence.

  “What do you want from me?” Rita demanded. “I mean, what are you planning with that interview? Do I get a say?”

  Erasmus shrugged. “Of course you do! And I don’t know every detail of what’s going to happen, or I’d tell you. Like everyone else, I’m playing this by ear. If you don’t want to participate, I understand, but—”

  “No, it’s not that.” Rita walked across to the bay window. The side window of the Minister of Propaganda’s office had a spectacular view of a formal garden. She’d seen pictures of the royal palace at Versailles: the garden here reminded her of it. According to a staffer, it had been commissioned by the Royal Pretender’s grandfather. (Apparently superpower politics during the fifties in this time line had focused obsessively on closing the Imperial Topiary Gap.) “You’re using me as a chess piece in two games simultaneously, aren’t you? The message I was sent to bring you, and the head game my employers want to run on your wife.”

  “Who happens to be your mother.” Erasmus turned deceptively mild brown eyes on her. “All right, your other mother, the one who didn’t raise you. But you’re right: there are two matters between us. One is the message. It’s going to take us some time to prepare a response. Quite frankly, it’s above my pay grade. It would normally be a matter for the Central Committee as a whole, with the First Man overseeing it. Unfortunately the First Man is … indisposed.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Burgeson glanced away. “Your mother was like that when she was younger,” he murmured. “Direct. There are some things we don’t like to talk about.” He turned back to her, worry lines forming on his forehead as he took a deep breath. “Adam Burroughs is the First Man of the Commonwealth, the ideological lodestone of the Party. He’s our head of state—President for Life, if you want. Supreme Adjudicator. He isn’t a president, as such—he’s a head of state, but rather than being a chief executive, he’s a judge … but you don’t need to know the constitutional minutiae. The point is, he’s terminally ill. He has cancer, and he’s unlikely to see out the month.”

  She stared at him, disbelieving. “But isn’t there a vice president or someone he can delegate to?”

  “Not really, no.” Erasmus stretched his arms out behind his head, fingers interlaced. “Many powers are delegated, of course, and not necessarily in the way you’d imagine if you’re familiar with the United States—strategic nuclear retaliation, for example. And then there are the everyday activities of the various ministries, the drafting of legislation. The First Man actually has less executive power than your president—he’s not meant to be a monarch.” He said the word with marked distaste. “But he’s the supreme adjudicator. Policy changes can’t be approved without someone in his role to arbitrate between contending factions and rule on their constitutional legality. We did not copy
the constitution of the United States when we were drafting our post-revolutionary settlement.” He smiled thinly: “It contains subtle flaws—Huw Hjorth calls them ‘emergent bugs’—that only become manifest after centuries. We studied it deeply and decided it placed an excessive weight on, ah, liberté, without a sufficiently clear idea of exactly whose freedom was to be protected, or why. And it undervalues égalité and fraternité. Not that the French republican constitutions of your eighteenth and nineteenth century were much better, or Stalin’s constitution of 1936, let alone Nazi Germany. But your mother gave us a unique, priceless opportunity to study your time line at a point when our own constitutional settlement was still tentative. She delivered a set of studies to us in our first year, a, what she called a CliffsNotes dossier, of revolutions of your time line and their failure modes. We ended up adopting most of our guiding principles from a successful revolution in your time line. One that built a strong deep state to defend it from a predatory superpower, while placing a heavy emphasis on democracy and a universal franchise. Admittedly our Deep State aims to entrench democracy and foster human rights and respect for diversity, rather different priorities from the Islamic Republic of Iran, but the constitutional framework—”

  “Hang on.” Rita shook her head, then shoved her hair back: “Iran?” Vague visions of black-clad women and fanatical clerics made her head spin. “You’re pulling my leg—”

  “No: we ran a best-practice analysis on revolutions in your time line—you’ve had so many more of them! So many more experiments in overthrowing hereditary dictatorships! So many hopeful monsters! So many interesting failures to study!—and all things considered, Iran turned out to have done very well indeed under severe external pressure. Did you know that the half-life of a revolution in your time line is just three years? Most revolutions very rapidly decay into dictatorship or are ended by a counter-coup. We didn’t want to do that, and we were determined to learn from other people’s examples. So after making some adjustments to reduce nepotism and feather-bedding, we built a similar framework. Ours promotes the radical humanist ideology of equality and fraternity between all humanity, rather than a religious faith, but the underlying framework is similar. We’re trying to build something new, Rita, to promote a new outlook in a world dominated by the imperial power of absolute monarchs. Equality before the law, a universal franchise for all adults, protection from discrimination on the basis of race, sex, gender, caste, nobility … it’s our task to lead and to set the standards we aspire to, even when the populace are less enlightened. It worked quite well for a generation: but Adam, our first and so far only Supreme Leader, is dying. So we can’t send your Secretary of State a binding commitment to enter into negotiations, until the Party committee has met to vote in a replacement for the First Man.” He shrugged.

  Rita tried not to flap her jaw. “How long will that take?”

  “Oh, for that we copied the Catholic Church,” he said with a blithe smile. “The Central Committee gets locked in a sealed room and the doors aren’t opened until they signal that they are in accord on the identity of the new Pope. First Man. Or First Woman.”

  “That doesn’t sound very democratic…”

  “Isn’t it? The Party is open to all, and the Committee delegates are elected, just like your electoral college. It’s not the kind of political party you’re used to. We’ve got those, too: we call them Factions and they operate at a different level, running for seats in the Magistracy and passing laws, the legality and implementation of which is supervised by the Party. But the Party exists to protect the constitutional system. It functions like your Supreme Court, if the justices were elected by other government employees, ran the police and military, and had nuclear weapons.”

  “But that’s—” With an effort of will, Rita pulled herself back on track. “You’re telling me you won’t have a reply to take back to Dr. Scranton and Colonel Smith until after the First Man dies? Which could be up to a month away. Am I right?”

  Erasmus’s smile vanished. “Not that long, I fear. The Foreign Affairs Committee has been discussing the letter, and there’s a draft communiqué. Signing it will be the first matter for our new supreme leader to consider, I assure you, even before the official mourning period is over. Which I, and my wife, will be expected to attend—if you are still here, perhaps you could accompany us?”

  “I’m not a diplomat!”

  “No, but you’re the nearest thing we’ve got to a representative of the United States government, and it would look good.” He paused. “Also, he was a friend. And an inspiration to me. Many years ago.”

  “Oh hell.” I could go back, if there isn’t going to be a reply for weeks, Rita realized. But then I’d be out of the loop. “You’re asking me to stay here indefinitely, aren’t you? I need to go back and report in, Mr. Burgeson: they were only expecting me to be away for a couple of days. I don’t think they’ll have a problem with me staying here, but I have to keep them informed.”

  “We can arrange that.” Erasmus picked up his pen—a fountain pen, Rita noticed: she hadn’t seen any sign of ballpoints—and began to write a letter. “I’m sure Inspector Morgan can take you to a secure rendezvous location and wait a few hours. In the meantime, I’ll draft an acknowledgment of receipt, and request your urgent continued attendance, pending our response. And a formal invitation to the state funeral. I don’t expect them to say no … Does that meet with your approval?”

  Rita had the distinct feeling that she was being toyed with, but not in a manner or to any ends that she understood. “Yes, yes it does,” she said, wishing she had the nerve to push for more time to herself, for precious hours with Angie, hours in which she didn’t feel like a lab rat trying to run a maze designed for the children of politicians. She paused. “Who do you think will succeed Mr. Burroughs?” she asked.

  His smile evaporated. “That’s the wrong question, Rita. You should be asking what will come after Adam dies.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  He sighed. “This has never happened before in the Commonwealth’s history. We all hope that our constitutional mechanisms weather the storm, and in a few weeks’ time we are conducting business as usual under the aegis of a younger and healthier supreme adjudicator. We know that our framework should survive: it worked elsewhere, after all. But if ever there is a window of opportunity for a coup d’état, or an attempt to restore the monarchy, this is it. It is very important to us that your superiors fully understand the scale of the coming succession. Which is why I am doing my best to get you a ring-side seat, and to introduce you to as many of the key players as possible.

  “You’re in a unique position, Rita. If we publicly acknowledge you as the daughter of a Party Commissioner in an important Ministry, that has one set of consequences. Or we can introduce you as an overt agent engaged in a diplomatic exchange on behalf of the nation you are a citizen of, which will have a different set of outcomes. But either way, you will be able to give your Dr. Scranton a level of observer access that she probably didn’t dream of—and which it is strongly in our interests to give her. We don’t want the US government to meddle in our internal affairs during a succession crisis. And the best way to deter them is by giving them a clear understanding of the stakes. This is the first-time-ever transition to a new First Citizen within the Commonwealth—a superpower that has nuclear weapons and para-time-capable strategic bombers, just like the United States. The potential for meddling to end in disaster is very high. So I want you to do your best to ensure that your bosses understand that.”

  PANKOW, BERLIN, TIME LINE TWO, AUGUST 2020

  Hulius returned to time line two’s janitorial closet, trudged down the corridor to the exit, and slunk back to his rented apartment. He drove manually, despite the killer headache and bone-deep sense of fatigue that came from world-walking six times in five hours. Once back in the apartment bedroom, he didn’t bother crossing over again to the furrier’s warehouse. He was, he hoped, done with the stakeo
ut staging area. Instead, he collapsed on the bed and set his phone’s alarm to wake him after a couple of hours. Tomorrow he’d have to make a high-tempo return trip, rest up for a few hours before escorting the kid to the aerodrome, then make a final hazardous double world-walk. But afterward he’d be able to chill for as long as he wanted—even take a vacation with Ellie and the kids. At last.

  At five that evening the doorbell rang. Refreshed and alert, Hulius checked the entryphone camera. It was Fox. “Come in,” he said tersely, stepping back to make room.

  “It’s all set up.” Fox sounded smug “I brought the goods.” He kicked the duffel bag he’d dropped just inside the doorway. Hulius suppressed an involuntary twitch: some of the goods in question were explosive. “The contractors are scheduled to do a deep clean here the day after tomorrow. In seventy-two hours there’ll be no sign you were ever in this apartment.”

  “Good,” Hulius grunted.

  “And here are the keys you wanted.” Fox handed over a small key pouch. “Alarm code’s on a piece of paper inside.”

  “Also good.” Hulius glanced at them, then slid them into a pocket. “I’ve got one last job for you.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “I want you to buy me two fully flexible tickets on Air France, flying CDG to MAR, business class if you can get them, premium economy if not. One-way, one checked bag per passenger.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “Full details here, with flight numbers, passport numbers, and full advance passenger information. You can do it online, or via an agency, I just don’t want to do it myself. Flights to depart in two days’ time. When you’ve got them, print out the confirmation numbers and drop a note through the mailbox here.”

  “That’s going to cost you. You want it on paper?” Fox looked dubious.

  “Yes, fucking paper. I know it’s old-fashioned and I know it’s going to be expensive at this short notice, but I don’t want to do it over the Internet. It’s like hanging out a sign saying ‘hack me here.’”