Dark State--A Novel of the Merchant Princes Multiverse

by Charles Stross

  “Liz, you wouldn’t!”

  “She did.” The speaker was male, of middling years—anywhere between thirty and fifty. He was tall and solidly built, but as nondescript in style and manners as the Princess in her disguise. He had made his approach without Susannah noticing, emerging discreetly from the door to the ladies’ room. “May I join you?”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Move along, Suz. Let him sit next to you.”

  “Oh dear.”

  The man perched on the end of the bench seat as Susannah slithered sideways, recoiling as if his touch might contaminate her with the virus of sedition. Elizabeth eyed him with interest. “May I ask your name?” she said.

  “You may. I might not answer truthfully.” He sounded faintly amused. “I take it the guards out front are yours?”

  “Captain Bertrand wouldn’t let me out of the hotel without them.”

  “Good.” He nodded. “I approve.” Lady Susannah’s eyes widened. He glanced at her: “I’m not going to kill and eat you,” he added. “You’re at no greater risk from me than you are from Captain Bertrand’s men. In fact, my superiors would be extremely angry if I allowed any misfortune to befall you. However, I must insist on you remaining at this table until it’s time for me to leave—and I must leave first.”

  “If you won’t tell me your name, what should I call you?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Call me Major White: all the other ladies do. At your service, ma’am.” He ducked his head at the Princess. He tries to play the charming rogue, Liz decided. But they wouldn’t send me an idiot. He’s sharper than he looks.

  “I believe you have an offer for me.”

  The Major looked mildly perturbed, although his expression was nothing compared to Susannah’s. “Yes, yes I do.” He cleared his throat. “Very well. You understand that the Commonwealth abolished all titles of nobility in perpetuity, and disestablished the monarchy. Yes?”

  The Princess nodded.

  “An absolute precondition for the offer—an iron-bound one—is that you publicly renounce in perpetuity all claim to sovereignty over the Commonwealth, its citizens, and its territories, both on your own behalf and on behalf of any descendants you may have. You may continue to style yourself a princess, but you renounce all the rights and powers that go with the title. It will be an honorific, not a legal privilege. You will consent to this decree under oath, and it will be publicly broadcast worldwide.”

  Elizabeth nodded again. “And in return?” She tried to ignore Susannah, whose eyes had grown to the size of dinner plates, almost matching the O of her mouth.

  “Let’s see … we will make arrangements for your travel, of course. We will grant you a full pardon and amnesty for all claims against your person and estates arising from any cause prior to your return to the Commonwealth. There will be a one-time payment to you in exchange for your relinquishment of your rights, followed by an annuity accruing to you and your descendants for the next two hundred years, of ten million pounds initially, and then two million pounds a year respectively. The Commonwealth Guard will provide bodyguards for your personal protection for as long as you require them. And finally, we can arrange the most precious thing of all: citizenship.”

  “Citizenship with no restriction on my participation in the political life of the nation?” she asked.

  The Major nodded. “As a citizen, should you want to stand for election to the assembly, there would be no obstacle save your age. If you wanted to join the Party and become a People’s Commissioner, you could in principle do that. You might even rise to the office of the First Man—or First Lady.” He seemed to find this idea amusing. “You could not expect to achieve success overnight, but you would not be prevented from trying.”

  Elizabeth turned and looked at her lady-in-waiting. Susannah seemed almost paralyzed, gaping in bewilderment—whether at the temerity of the offer, or the size of the purse attached (which was considerably larger than Elizabeth had expected, and she had been primed to expect a Princess’s ransom). “So, Suz,” she said lightly. “Back to my question: is it better to reign in Hell—or should I aspire to be a citizen in the early years of a better nation?”

  FORT BASTION, TIME LINE TWELVE, AUGUST 2020

  “Welcome to JUGGERNAUT.”

  Huw had shepherded his delegates into a briefing room in one of the site office prefabs where they wouldn’t get underfoot or risk physical injury. The assembly and integration building was factory-like in terms of the hazards it held for the unwary. A row of middle-aged faces looked up at him from the front row of chairs, set in expressions ranging from bafflement to awe.

  He couldn’t blame them, really. They’d all grown to at least early-adulthood before the revolution, in an age of rapid change—electrification, steam cars, motion pictures, aircraft. Even the superannuated dirigibles operating out of Fort Bastion had been shiny and new relatively recently. But the revolution had been followed by the establishment of MITI and its systematic program of education, industrial espionage, and planned technological disruption. We’re playing the ultimate game of Civ, Miriam had explained: attempting to duplicate the mystical, barely understood development surge that could take a country like Meiji-era Japan and bootstrap it from medievalism to the cutting edge of technology in a generation. In the United States, they’d gone from biplanes to ballistic missiles in fifty years. In New Britain, they’d gone from piston engines to space launchers in just fifteen—with a bit of help and, more importantly, the full fore-knowledge of why they might want to do that, and how to get there fastest.

  “JUGGERNAUT is our alternative space program. You’ve all seen the film of the satellite launches, I take it? The rocketry program is, in no small measure, a cover for JUGGERNAUT.”

  Shocked, white faces all round. Finally Cortez raised his hand and uttered one word: “Why?”

  “Because nobody was sure JUGGERNAUT would work.” Huw shrugged. “Kerosene-LOX multi-stage rockets like the ones we use for satellites are well-understood. But JUGGERNAUT is based on an untested design. We’re the first people to actually build one. A US scientist called Freeman Dyson came up with it’s ancestor in the 1950s, but it went out of favor and they never built it. In principle it can lift gigantic payloads very efficiently, and send them anywhere in the solar system. We’ve resurrected it because we have a key enabler that they didn’t have—the ability to build and launch it in an uninhabited time line. And we have a mission for it: to conduct orbital surveys of parallel Earths without risking exposure to surface-level hazards.

  “Let me walk you through the history of what they called Project Orion…”

  It was an old story. Project Orion had been a bomb-powered spaceship, sitting atop a gigantic armored plate with a small hole through which the crew would drop carefully designed nuclear charges. Shock absorbers on the pusher-plate absorbed the brutal impact of the explosions, transferring momentum to the multi-thousand-ton ship suspended above it. A couple of dozen atom bombs would blast the ship from ground level into low Earth orbit; with a full magazine of hundreds of rounds, it could cruise the solar system for years.

  The flaw in the design was obvious: takeoff involved nuking the launchpad, distributing a fallout plume downwind that would render the site uninhabitable for years, and fry most electronics within a thousand kilometers. The Comprehensive Test-Ban Treaty killed Project Orion, and by the twenty-first century it was clearly impractical, even for deep space missions. The electromagnetic pulses created by the bombs would fry every satellite in orbit.

  “I’m pleased to say that we’ve solved this problem,” Huw continued. “We assemble each JUGGERNAUT unit on top of a large hover-platform, similar to the ones we use for freight transport—then we launch from an uninhabited time line. The crew will include world-walkers. Once in orbit, they’ll be able to take the entire vehicle with them when they transition. A JUGGERNAUT vehicle with full crew should be able to survey an entire alternate Earth from polar orbit in twenty-four hours, and carrie
s enough fuel and supplies to operate for six months. In six months—one exploration mission—we should be able to survey as many time lines as the entire exploration program has visited in the past ten years. Finally, JUGGERNAUT returns to orbit in this time line, and the crew and their film payload splash down using a larger version of the capsules that will be flying on one of our chemical rockets next year.”

  Cortez asked the inevitable question: “Why do we even need the rocket program if we’ve got JUGGERNAUT?”

  “Glad you asked. There are several reasons. First, they were an insurance policy in case JUGGERNAUT doesn’t work. Secondly, they’re propaganda cover for our ICBM program—‘rockets for peace.’ They’re also the real platform for our space program: JUGGERNAUT is merely a highly specialized spin-off. Chemical rockets are more flexible. A single JUGGERNAUT mission consumes a year’s plutonium production from the entire Commonwealth, to put a few thousand tons into orbit in one push. It doesn’t let us run multiple missions or respond to unforeseen situations, and we had to build up a big enough strategic plutonium reserve for our deterrent program before we started work on it.”

  “You said consumes, not will consume.” Magistrate Smith had spotted it. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  Good. “We flew an unmanned prototype JUGGERNAUT stack eight months ago,” Huw said blandly. “It was a proof of concept—much smaller than the real thing, with concrete ballast for payload. It had just enough fuel assemblies in its magazine to make orbit. But I’m pleased to say that it went off like clockwork.”

  He pointed at the projection booth, and gave a hand signal. Moments later the lights dimmed. “Perhaps you’d like to see the launch? We filmed it, after all.”

  BERLIN, TIME LINE THREE, AUGUST 2020

  “Are you insane, my lady?”

  “I don’t think so, Suz. Why do you ask?”

  “They, they only need to get you alone and cut your throat, or, or—”

  “Don’t be silly. If they wanted me dead the good Major would have assassinated me before we even noticed him, wouldn’t he?”

  “Maybe, but that’s not the point!”

  “Suz. Think! If they kill me, what happens?”

  “They, I, I, I can’t think! It’s too horrible!”

  “Then let me do the thinking for you. Firstly, by doing so they would hand a propaganda coup to my father, and to Louis—nobody would trust them to negotiate in good faith ever again. Diplomats are like Caesar’s wife, they have to be seen to be above reproach. Secondly, if they killed me it would force Daddy to divorce my mother and remarry, to get an heir. Don’t look so shocked! He’s been thinking about it for years. The reason he hasn’t done it already is that it would make it politically hard for his Most Catholic Majesty to support him. But the next in line after me is his first cousin’s idiot son, and the one after that is a wastrel and a gambler. As long as I live he’s going to procrastinate and hope I return to my senses.”

  “You could … could you do that? Flee to the Commonwealth, then reverse yourself and avow compulsion?”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that question, Suz. Some questions are best not asked, let alone answered, even in private.”

  “But. You are certain they want you alive?”

  “I’d say that was pretty obvious, wouldn’t you? Not only that, they want me cooperating with their ministry of propaganda. A princess in a dungeon looks bad. But it’s hard for outrage to rally to the flag of a princess lounging on a golden fleece in a palace.”

  “You’d be their puppet…”

  “And I’m not my father’s already? Destined to be Louis’s puppet—and his brood-cow—if I don’t choose otherwise? A gilded cage is still a cage, Suz. And besides, I palmed a card.”

  “I’m sure I didn’t notice! My lady, were you anyone else I would call your proposed course of conduct treasonable…”

  “Hush, Susannah. Let me ask you one last question. Who did you think I was negotiating with?”

  “Why, it was obvious! You’re plotting to defect to the Commonwealth, renounce your claim to the throne, and become their—”

  “The Commonwealth. Yes?”

  “Wait. Oh, my head. You mean the Major wasn’t here to represent the jumped-up rebel leadership? There’s some other faction? Their leadership are split?”

  “You could say that, yes.”

  “Oh, I hate it when you feign ladylike coyness! It’s so clearly false! You are a wicked, wicked princess, and a politician to boot! What are you scheming now?”

  “As you would know if you had been paying attention to the intelligence packets that come my way so regularly, their First Man, Adam Burroughs, is dying. The Major, who you have now met, is the first emissary to reach me with an offer—as you surmise, it’s from the Propaganda Ministry. He will not be the last. There will be an auction, Suz, with as many bidders as there are pretenders to Adam Burroughs’s throne. Even if our Major is the only bidder, the terms on offer are quite generous. Better than moldering in a freezing palace near Finland, popping out babies for the glory of France while my revolting husband pleasures his pig of a mistress. Stuck in Berlin, or St. Petersburg, I can’t do anything. But if I’m in New London with you by my side I can influence events. I’m plotting victory, Susannah. Don’t blame me: it’s bred in my line’s bones…”

  PART TWO

  EMISSARY

  It is true that liberty is precious; so precious that it must be rationed.

  —Vladimir Lenin

  Covert Agendas

  PHILADELPHIA, TIME LINE TWO, AUGUST 2020

  Rita’s life seemed to be blurring into a barely interrupted series of interrogations held in dingy high-security offices. The costumes and titles changed, but the pedantic, tired, half-hostile questions were the same. Colonel Smith led her through a first round of questioning, breaking off for an hour when Gomez brought him the leather document pouch. Rita was allowed down to the hotel restaurant for a late lunch, eaten in silence under Gomez’s suspicious gaze—apparently she was not allowed to speak to anyone until Smith was done with her—then she was escorted back up to the Colonel’s office. Where Dr. Scranton was waiting for her.

  Dr. Scranton, a middle-aged lady with graying hair and a brusque manner, could have passed for an aging corporate lawyer or a CPA. But she was the deputy assistant to the Secretary of State for Homeland Security (Homeland Security having been put on a par with the State Department in 2003, when it acquired responsibility for parallel time lines). Her down-to-earth, friendly manners were deceptive, concealing a mind like a steel trap. She smiled affably as Rita sloped through the doorway. “Ms. Douglas! How good to see you. Did you have a good lunch? Excellent. The Colonel and I have been discussing what you came back with, and we’ve got a few more questions for you.”

  Bend over, here it comes again, Rita thought tiredly. She felt drained, almost completely hollowed out. The past forty-eight hours had left her exhausted. “Sure. What would you like to know?”

  Dr. Scranton smiled, in an infinitesimally misjudged gesture of encouragement that allowed slightly too many teeth to come into view. “I’d like you to tell me about the Commissioner, your birth mother. In your own time, please, I’m sure it must be very difficult, dealing with such a personal matter.”

  “Difficult?” Rita took a deep breath. “Personal? Please, can we cut the bullshit now?” She could feel the heat of burning bridges beneath her feet, but there was nothing to do but sprint for the finish line. “You didn’t recruit me just because of the world-walking thing, did you? Where there’s one there must be others. You recruited me because of her. You s-set me up—”

  Scranton and the Colonel were both shaking their heads. “No, Rita,” said Scranton.

  “You’ve got to understand, we suspected she was out there,” added the Colonel. “We hoped you’d flush her out if she was. But this meeting was a stroke of…”

  “Luck,” said the Doctor. She did not, Rita noticed, say it was good luck. �
�I told you a week ago that we would eventually open negotiations with BLACK RAIN. Well, now we know that’s where the surviving Clan world-walkers went, and we know they’re well bedded in. We weren’t expecting your birth mother to be so high up the political ladder, but make no mistake, Rita, we intend to use all the leverage we can get. Which is why I want you to tell me all about meeting her. Including the personal commentary. I want to know how you feel about her. And how she responded to you.”

  “Oh.” Rita frowned pensively. “Were you hoping if I met her we’d get on like a house on fire? Like some kind of Hollywood feel-good family reunion movie?” She caught the Colonel’s sidelong flickering glance at Scranton before he nodded. “Oops.” She raised a hand to cover her mouth. “It didn’t happen like that: I, uh, cold-shouldered her when she tried to get all touchy-weepy.” She paused. “I’ve got a lot of unexamined anger, here. Forewarned would have been forearmed, and if you had told me this was a possibility I might not have bitten her head off quite so hard, you know?”

  “So I see.” Scranton’s tone was mild, but seemed to Rita to be drier than bleached bones whitening atop desert sands. “Did you get the impression that she wanted to meet you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, having her jackbooted minions put me in a military helicopter and fly me to New York for a fifteen minute meeting might just have been a hint…”

  “Enough sarcasm,” Smith said sharply. “Rita, this is not a game.”

  “I didn’t think it was.” She drew a shuddering breath. “I just spent most of the past two days terrified out of my skull. Colonel, I didn’t stand a chance. They were hunting for me with a dragnet, and they knew exactly how to deal with a world-walker because they run their own. The only reason I’m here talking to you now is because they wanted to send you a message. They’re playing nice, for now: they could have sent you my head.”