Dark State--A Novel of the Merchant Princes Multiverse

by Charles Stross

  Bred in the Bones

  BERLIN, TIME LINE THREE, AUGUST 2020

  After insertion, the second most dangerous moment for an illegal agent is a first meeting with a source.

  Sources generally fall into three categories: people with access to secret information, people who are of interest to the local authorities, and people who are crazy. (These categories may overlap: some sources fall in two, or even all three.) With any of these, making direct contact may expose the illegal agent to the scrutiny of the state counter-espionage apparatus.

  Princess Elizabeth was certainly a member of the first two categories, and quite possibly the third—insofar as the sanity of a royal princess holding secret talks with the revolutionary power who exiled her family might be open to question. And sanity notwithstanding, approaching her was a risky process.

  In Hulius’s opinion (shared by his controllers and superiors in the Department of Para-time Research, not to mention Brilliana’s more shadowy operations group), the Crown Princess was about as safe to contact directly as a lump of green kryptonite sitting on top of a critical mass of plutonium in the middle of a fish tank full of rabid piranhas. The DPR focus group that had brainstormed the scenario had issued voluminous and dire warnings, almost as if they were treating it as an exercise in ass-covering. What if it was a false flag op, and the Major was being suckered into a situation where he could be arrested and portrayed as a Commonwealth assassin, sent to murder the Princess on Imperial soil? What if the Princess’s request for a meeting was genuine, but she was in the throes of bipolar disorder or an acute psychotic breakdown? What if the Princess’s request was genuine and she was sane, but she changed her mind halfway through? What if the Princess was not in fact requesting asylum, but some other member of her retinue was impersonating the Princess for their own purposes? What if the Princess was actually a shape-shifting alien lizard from the fourth planet orbiting Arcturus?

  Brill had overruled all these objections, because the upside of the risk/benefit trade-off was an astonishing diplomatic coup that might never be repeated. And, Hulius agreed, it would be worth it—if everything worked like well-oiled clockwork. But the level of risk involved made his usual courier missions into the United States look like a walk in the park, and he intended to proceed with extreme caution.

  Hulius snorted as he unpacked his bags in the modest room he was renting. It sat above a bierhall half a kilometer away from the Princess’s far more palatial hotel suite on Unter den Linden. Speculation was pointless: to establish the true picture, someone would have to go and place a pea under the girl’s mattress. Or, more prosaically, someone would have to set up a rendezvous and see if she showed up for it—and if the Kaiserlichen Geheimpolizei also showed up. As a world-walker, Hulius ought to be able to dodge the KGP. It would be hairy, but over in time line one this part of northern Europe had been depopulated by the climatological effects of the North American nuclear winter. If he was walking into a stakeout, he could slip through the net, albeit only by the cost of giving the KGP valuable information about world-walker capabilities. So let’s not do that, he resolved.

  That evening, he dined in the bierkeller on roast pig’s knuckle with sauerkraut and Jerusalem artichokes, with a Berliner weisse to wash it down and a shot of schnapps to ease his stomach. Afterward he went for an evening stroll in a leafy park just off Prenzlauer Allee. The leaves were falling, orange and brown in the glare of the hissing gas lamps. In his jacket pocket, the black aluminum slab was slightly warm to the touch, like an intrusion from the future. He’d coded up a message before he ate. Now, as he walked, he felt a telltale vibration as a download arrived from the satellite overhead. He switched it off by touch then slowly made his way back to the hostelry, deep in thought. An experienced tail might have recognized this for the misdirection that it was: but nobody followed him home. In the absence of ubiquitous computing technology, even the most oppressive police state is always desperately short of the bodies it needs if it is to maintain total information awareness, and his arrival in Berlin had not set any trip wires humming.

  In the morning, Hulius dressed and slipped out of his room. He broke his fast with bretz and coffee at a street café, then caught the tram back to the furrier’s warehouse. There were no signs of visitation outside, and no watchers present when he went indoors. He remained out of sight until, in late afternoon, he emerged and locked the door behind him before taking a tram back toward the city center. And then …

  BERLIN, TIME LINE THREE, AUGUST 2020

  “I should like to go shopping today, Susannah,” said the Princess. “Incognito.” She glanced slyly in the direction of Bertrand, the head of her bodyguard. Despite his usually imperturbable manner he didn’t quite manage to suppress a momentary twitch.

  “Your Majesty. Begging your pardon, but I can’t see to your safety if you—”

  “Lady Susannah will see to my safety. Won’t you, Sue?” Elizabeth raised her coffee glass as she watched Bertrand for signs of rebellion. “As I said, I should like to go shopping incognito, as a bourgeois. I will take Susannah as a chaperone, and a guard or two, as long as they are discreet and keep an appropriate distance unless they are needed. I won’t be wearing my jewels, or standing on protocol, so I am unlikely to attract trouble.”

  Bertrand shifted from foot to foot. “But Your Majesty, is this really necessary? I beg you to reconsider; there are rumors of Leveler cells and anarchist sympathizers in the city. Without a full escort you will be exposed to any number of petty insults, not to mention being at risk of assailants. There could be demonstrators or worse…”

  Elizabeth was about to protest when Susannah caught her eye; she shook her head minutely. The Princess nodded, waiting. “Captain,” said the lady-in-waiting: “When did Her Majesty last go outside?”

  “I—ah.” Bertrand nodded in turn. “The day before yesterday, ma’am?”

  “And how natural is it for a young lady of any status to stay mewed up in an apartment for so long?”

  “Indeed, ma’am.” Bertrand looked thoughtful. “But a suitable escort—”

  “Will impede Her Majesty’s ability to relax, and will actively attract the sort of attention you would prefer to avoid, won’t it?”

  “Hmm.” Bertrand looked at his charge again. “I see.” He paused. “You support this plan?”

  “I propose that Her Majesty and I will go shopping together. If a pair of gentlemen happen to be walking the same way, not in uniform and at a sufficient distance that they are not obviously accompanying us, that would be prudent. They can keep an eye open for pickpockets, if nothing else. And if there is the slightest rumor of trouble we will stay indoors, or return immediately. But I pray you will allow her at least the illusion of autonomy? To be under constant scrutiny is so very wearying.”

  Elizabeth nodded, not trusting her ability to plead her own case without becoming irritable. It was always better to have an advocate, if so frustrating at times …

  “How do you propose to avoid attracting attention?” Bertrand asked cautiously. He had the demeanor of a snapping turtle: stubborn, defensive, and seemingly slow—but capable of sudden and decisive bursts of action.

  “We will dress below our station,” Elizabeth said primly. “People focus on clothes, not faces. I shall wear a headscarf—the weather is poor enough to make that unexceptional—and we shall leave via the staff exit at the rear. If anyone asks, we shall be a pair of governesses on an afternoon excursion. But I assure you, nobody will ask so long as we play the part honestly.”

  “I see.” Bertrand was silent for a moment. “It sounds as if you have done this before.”

  “Yes,” said the Princess, thinking, If only you knew.

  “Not often,” Susannah added diffidently.

  “I wish you hadn’t told me that.” Bertrand looked pensive. “Tell me when you are ready to leave and I will send two men to follow you. Please be back by seven o’clock. Any later and your father will have my head.”

&n
bsp; “Thank you.” Elizabeth smiled at him. There would be at least eight men, she was sure, but only two would be visible. “We’ll be ready in an hour. I shall go and get changed now.” She rose and swept out of the lounge, toward her dressing room.

  “Stay.” Bertrand fixed Susannah with a chilly look before she could follow her mistress. “Lady Susannah, I hold you personally responsible for Her Majesty’s well-being. Do you understand?”

  Susannah met his gaze evenly. “I have held that responsibility for longer than you have, Captain. I was with Her Majesty during the bomb attack on the palace three years ago. I was at the winter ball where those horrible anarchists assassinated the Grand Duke of Muscovy. I am very aware of the risks. I would also like to remind you that Her Majesty is a bored and energetic young woman, whose energy cannot always be relied upon to flow in risk-free directions. Be glad we’re not in the country, I’ve seen her turn her guardian’s hair gray with her riding escapades. Do you have any word of actual threats to her security, or is this caution merely an expression of your desire for a quiet life? Because if it is the latter, I assure you that your life will be a lot quieter if you permit her the occasional taste of adventure—the illusion of freedom, prudently restrained to ensure her safety—than if you lock her in a padded cell until she is driven to break out.”

  “But it’s not ladylike!” Bertrand stopped, as if suddenly remembering who he was speaking to. “I apologize,” he said stiffly. “I am sure you have more insight into the mind of a spirited young filly than I shall ever have. There are no current security alerts. But I have been given very specific instructions about not allowing her to be exposed to any risks.”

  “She won’t be. What’s going to happen, Captain, is that we shall walk around two or three department stores until she becomes foot-sore. I will urge her to buy a trinket or two along the way, to provide some intercourse with the common folk. Then I will steer her into a patisserie or a coffee shop for half an hour. After that, she will want to visit one last store, and then it will be time to come home and refresh herself then dress for dinner. If Her Majesty is feeling adventurous I will allow her to argue me into riding a tram with her for a couple of stops, then feeding swans in the park—but only in daylight, if the weather is good and there are no signs of trouble.” He deflated slowly under her gaze. “All the time, two—or knowing you, four or six or eight—of your men will be following us. Armed, I’m sure, and able to summon help if they become worried.”

  “And this is necessary? Truly necessary?”

  “It is, if you don’t want her climbing down the drain pipes after midnight to go carousing in beer halls. At the dacha she used to hare off on skis and hunt reindeer: at least in Berlin you don’t have to worry about her playing with guns.” Susannah stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should go and change, too. The public might think it odd if they see a young governess being followed around by a lady in a court gown.”

  BERLIN, TIME LINE THREE, AUGUST 2020

  In early afternoon two women—a jungfrau of respectable breeding and an older woman, either her governess or chaperone—exited the perfumer on Holzmarktstraße where they had just spent ten minutes. They turned into a side street lined with secondhand bookshops, newsagents, and cozy-looking cafés. “My feet are positively aching, Suz,” said the young lady. “Can we stop for coffee?” She held her companion’s arm lightly, head turning continuously to take in the scene—she wore a black armband and her hat was swathed by a mourning veil that obscured her face.

  “I suppose so.”

  Susannah sounded dubious, but the young lady was not to be dissuaded. “This looks like a decent establishment,” she insisted, steering her chaperone toward a coffee house that boasted fresher paint than its neighbors, with window boxes full of ornamental flowers fronting the street. “Shall we try it?”

  “If you want,” Lady Susannah agreed. As she approached the door, a fellow in a long black overcoat strode up, nodded politely enough, then nipped indoors in front of her. “I say,” said Elizabeth, feigning mild offense.

  “Hist,” said Susannah. “At least Bert’s men are on the job.” She stopped and waited on the threshold. A few seconds later the door opened again. It was the fellow in the black overcoat: he bowed apologetically, then stepped aside to admit the ladies. His colleague loitered on the far side of the street, watching the approaches and discreetly monitoring everyone entering and leaving the café.

  The café was furnished in dark brown leather, offsetting the whitewashed walls and blackened beams, that fashion so tiresomely dictated for such places. Gaslights fizzed quietly, the better to burn up the blue fumes from the pipes a couple of old veterans smoked in one corner. Susannah and Elizabeth were met by a young waitress, who led them to a corner booth. Susannah removed her hat and coat, giving them to the waitress; after a moment, Elizabeth did likewise, pretending not to notice the widening of the woman’s eyes. When they were alone, Liz reached across the table to touch Susannah’s hand. “Thank you. My feet are truly sore: my right heel is rubbing.”

  “You are wearing the new winter boots that were delivered this morning, aren’t you?” Her lady-in-waiting glanced around the room. “I’m sure we can send them back to the cobbler for work if they’re uncomfortable. But we have walked an awfully long way today, haven’t we?”

  “Yes. I’ll be glad to get the weight off them for at least fifteen minutes.” The waitress returned to take their order. She turned to Susannah, not meeting Elizabeth’s eye or addressing her. The Princess watched her departing back, her face still.

  “Is there a problem, my lady?” Susannah asked quietly.

  The Princess’s fingers tightened momentarily. “No more than there ever is. I’m never going to be accepted here: maybe I should give up hoping.”

  She didn’t expand on what here meant. To her lady-in-waiting it was all too obvious. The social implications of skin color in the old world were very clear, from the slave plantations of the Congo to the caste systems of the Maharashtrian and Bengali dominions. Elizabeth had inherited her hue from her mother, a Brazilian queen—herself the descendant of one of the conquerors of South America, freed from slavery by one Hanoverian monarch and ennobled by another—but in northern Europe she would always be an oddity, whispered about, viewed (if she was lucky) as exotic, or (if less lucky) as a freak. The plantation-owning aristocrats of Virginia and Mississippi had rejected the Imperial Settlement of 1760; their founders were in many cases Stuart loyalist exiles, and the idea of paying taxes and bending the knee to a Yankee Hanoverian monarch had lit the fuse on one of the ugliest periods in North American history. The Slaveowners’ Treasonous Rebellion lasted seven years, and ended with the death of nearly nine out of every ten white menfolk in the southern states, and six out of ten women and children besides. Slavery was abolished and government enforced by the law of cannon and gibbet. Mercy was not a commodity that a King with his back to the wall was inclined to dispense freely.

  “They can’t touch you, Liz. When you become—” Susannah faltered. “After the coronation, they won’t dare. It becomes lèse-majesté! Treason, even!”

  “And when was the last time you saw some scribbler broken on the wheel before the Menshikov Palace, for writing that the Dauphin picks his nose and eats it?” The Princess raised one chiseled eyebrow. “Prosecuting editors for sedition and slander won’t stop the whispering. It only convinces the listeners that there is a fire beneath the cloud of smoke. Suppose you were offered a choice between reigning in Hell, or being a citizen, not even in Heaven, but just somewhere on Earth where you wouldn’t be an object of contempt—what would you choose?”

  “I don’t know. I think one should prefer to reign in Heaven, but—” Susannah looked up. The waitress was approaching. “Ah! Our refreshments.”

  The girl curtsied, then placed cups, saucers, and a milk jug on the table. She filled the cup in front of Susannah from her cafetière, then placed the jug on the table and left without a word. Liz sta
red at her empty cup. After a moment, Susannah fluttered into motion and filled it for her. “My question was not rhetorical,” Liz said quietly.

  Her lady-in-waiting stared at her. “But where would you go?” she asked thinly. “Where will have you?”

  “I should like to go home.”

  “What? To St. Peters—”

  “No; to New London.”

  Susannah stared at her. “But you can’t! Not without your father, and your husband’s navy—”

  “What if there was a way?”

  Susannah shrunk back against the wall of the booth. “Liz dearest, you’re frightening me.”

  Elizabeth glanced down at the thin swirl of cream lightening the top of her coffee. Then she looked up. “Can I rely on you not to betray me?”

  “Of course I won’t betray you! But. It’s not possible. Is it?”

  “There is no price on my head,” Elizabeth’s voice was steady. “There have been no assassination attempts that could be traced to the rebel government, Suz. None. They honored their end of the bargain my grandfather made.” (The bargain being, essentially, that John Frederick would take his family into exile, and the revolutionaries would let them leave in peace. Nobody wanted a repeat of 1649 or 1688. Or, among the closed inner circle of the revolutionary leadership who had been briefed on other time lines, of 1789, 1917, or 1979.) “The times are changing. The Leveler revolution is nearing its majority. If it was going to collapse imminently, if it was weak, it would already have been swept aside by the tides of history. So … I gather that a gentleman has come to Berlin to place a proposal before me.”