The Merchants’ War tmp-4

by Charles Stross

  Across the room, Burgeson was mouthing something at her. His face was in shadow, making it hard to interpret. The inspector knelt in the middle of the floor, in a square of sunlight, sobbing softly as he rocked from side to side wringing his hands. The appearance of the Polis had quite unmanned him.

  “Like this: parlez vous Francoise, Madame Beckstein?”

  Miriam felt faint. They think I’m a French spy? Either the heat or the tension or some other strain was plucking her nerves like guitar strings. Somehow Erasmus had fetched up almost as far away as it was possible to get, twelve feet away across open ground overlooked by a window. To get him out of here one or the other of them would need to cross that expanse of empty floor, in front of—

  The ticket inspector snapped, flickering from broken passivity to panic in a fraction of a second. He lurched to his feet and ran at the window, screaming, “Don’t hurt me!”

  Erasmus brought his right hand up, and Miriam saw the pistol in it. He hesitated for a long moment as the inspector fumbled with the window, throwing it wide and leaning out. “Let me—” he shouted: then a spatter of shots cracked through the glass, and any sense of what he had been trying to say.

  The bullhorn blared, unattended, as the inspector’s body slumped through the half-open window and Miriam, seeing her chance, ducked and darted across the room, avoiding the lit spaces on the floor, to fetch up beside Burgeson.

  “I think they want you alive,” he said, a death’s-head grin spreading across his gaunt cheekbones. “Can you get yourself out of here?”

  “I can get us both out—” She fumbled with the top button of her blouse, hunting for the locket chain.

  “After how you were last time?”

  Miriam was still looking for a cutting reply when the bullhorn started up again. “If you come out with your hands up we won’t use you for target practice! That’s official, boys, don’t shoot them if they’ve got their hands up! We want to ask you some questions, and then it’s off to the Great Lakes with you if you cooperate. That’s also a promise. What it’s to be is up to you. Full cooperation and your lives! Hurry, folks, this is a bargain, never to be repeated. Because you’re on my manor, and Gentleman Jim Reese prides himself on his hospitality, I’ll give you a minute to think about it before we shoot you. Use it carefully.”

  “Were you serious about waiting around for your friends?” Burgeson asked ironically. “Is a minute long enough?”

  “But—” Miriam took a deep breath. “Brace yourself.” She put her arms around Erasmus, hugging him closely. His breath on her cheek smelled faintly stale. “Hang on.” She dug her heels into the floor and lifted, staring over his shoulder into the enigmatic depths of the open locket she had wrapped around her left wrist. The knot writhed like chain lightning, sucking her vision into its contortions—then it spat her out. She gasped involuntarily, her head pulsing with a terrible, sudden tension. She focused again, and her stomach clenched. Then she was dizzy, unsure where she was. I’m standing up, she realized. That’s funny. Her feet weren’t taking her weight. There was something propping her up. A shoulder. Erasmus’s shoulder. “Hey, it didn’t—”

  She let go of him and slumped, doubling over at his feet as her stomach clenched painfully. “I know,” he said sadly, above her. “You’re having difficulty, aren’t you?”

  The bullhorn: “Thirty seconds! Make ’em count!”

  “Do you think you can escape on your own?” Burgeson asked.

  “Don’t—know.” The nausea and the migraine were blocking out her vision, making thought impossible. “N-not.”

  “Then I see no alternative to—” Erasmus laid one hand on the doorknob “—this.”

  Miriam tried to roll over as he yanked, hard, raising the pistol in his right hand and ducking low. He squeezed off a shot just as Gentleman Jim, or one of his brute squad, opened fire: clearly the Polis did things differently here. Then there was a staccato burst of fire and Erasmus flopped over, like a discarded hand puppet.

  Miriam screamed. A ghastly sense of déjà vu tugged at her: Erasmus, what have you done? She rose to her knees and began to raise her gun, black despairing fury tugging her forward.

  There was another burp of fire, ominously rapid and regular, like a modern automatic weapon. That’s funny, she thought vacantly, tensing in anticipation. She managed to unkink her left hand, but even a brief glance at the locket told her that it was hopeless. The design swum in her vision like a poisonous toadstool, impossible to stomach.

  Erasmus rolled over and squeezed off two more shots methodically. Miriam shook her head incredulously: You can’t do that, you’re dead! Someone screamed hoarsely, continuously, out behind the station. Shouts and curses battered at her ears. The hammering of the machine gun started up again. Someone else screamed, and the sound was cut short. What’s going on? she wondered, almost dazed.

  The shots petered out with a final rattle from the machine gun. The silence rang in her ears like a tapped crystal wineglass. Her head ached and her stomach was a hot fist clenched below her ribs. “Erasmus,” she called hoarsely.

  “Miriam. My lady, are you hurt?”

  The familiar, crystal-clear voice shattered the bell of glass that surrounded her. “Brill!” she cried.

  “My lady, are you alone in there?”

  Urgency. Miriam tried to take stock. “I think so,” she managed. “I’m with Erasmus.”

  “She’s not hurt, but she’s sick,” Burgeson called out. He shuffled backwards, into the shadowy interior of the waiting room, still clutching his pistol in his hand. He focused on Miriam. “It’s your girl, Brill, isn’t it?” he hissed.

  “Yes,” she choked out, almost overwhelmed with emotion. He’s not dead! More than half a year had passed since that terrible moment in Fort Lofstrom, waiting beside Roland’s loose-limbed body, hoping against hope. And Brill—

  “Then I suggest we move out of here at once!” Brilliana called. “I’m going to stand up. Hold your fire.”

  “I’m holding,” Erasmus called hoarsely.

  “Good. I’m coming in now.”

  Another wild goose chase, Judith told herself gloomily. No sooner had she gotten back to the serious job of shadowing Mike Fleming like he was the president or something, no sooner had she managed to breathe a series of extended gasps of relief at the news—that Source GREENSLEEVES fingerprints had been all over the casing and it was missing from inventory and Dr. Rand had punched in the PAL code and switched it off without any drama, and all the other weapons in its class were present and accounted for—than the colonel came down with his tail on fire and a drop everything order of the day: absolutely typical. “Leave a skeleton team on site and get everyone else up here now,” he said, all trace of his usually friendly exterior gone. Crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there the week before. Something’s eating him, she’d realized, and left it to Rich Hall to ask what the rush job was and get his head bitten off.

  Which was why, four hours later, she was sitting in the back seat of an unmarked police car behind officers O’Grady and Pike, keeping an eye on a strip mall and a field with a big top in it and a sign saying HISTORY FAIRE outside.

  “What is it we’re supposed to be looking for, ma’am?” Pike asked, mildly enough.

  “I’ll tell you when I see it.” The waiting was getting to her. She glanced once more at the laptop with the cellular modem and the GPS receiver sitting next to her. Seven red dots pocked the map of Concord like a disease. Updated in real time by the colonel’s spooky friends Bob and Alice, no less, the laptop could locate a phone to within a given GSM cell…but that took in the mall, the field, and a couple of streets on either side. “There are tricks we can play with differential signal strength analysis to pin down exactly where a phone is,” Smith had told her, “but it takes time. So go and sit there and keep your eyes peeled while we try to locate it.”

  The mall was about as busy—or as quiet—as you’d expect on any weekday around noon. Cars c
ame, cars went. A couple of trucks rumbled past, close enough to the parked police car to rock it gently on its suspension. O’Grady had parallel-parked in front of a hardware store just beside the highway, ready to move.

  “We could be here a while,” she said quietly. “Just as long as it isn’t a wild goose chase.”

  “I didn’t think you people went on wild goose chases,” said Pike. Then she caught his eye in the rearview mirror. He reddened.

  “We try not to,” she said dryly, keeping her face still. Her FBI credentials were still valid, and if anyone checked them out they’d get something approximating the truth: on long-term assignment to Homeland Security, do not mess with this woman. “We’re expecting company.”

  “Like that?” O’Grady gestured through the window. Herz tracked his finger, and stifled a curse. On the screen beside her, an eighth red dot had lit up in her cell.

  “It’s possible.” She squinted at the coach. Men were coming out of the big top to open the gate, admitting it.

  The laptop beeped. A ninth red dot on the map—and another coach of HISTORY FAIRE folks was slowing down to turn into the field.

  “Just what do they do at a history faire anyway?” asked Pike. “Hey, will you look at that armor!”

  “Count them, please,” Judith muttered, pulling out her own phone. She speed-dialed a number. “Larry? I’ve got two coachloads that showed up around the same time as two more positives. Can you give me a background search on—” she squinted through her compact binoculars, reading off the number plates “—and forward it to Eric? He’s going to want to know how many to bring to the party.”

  “What’s that they’re carrying?” Pike grunted.

  Judith blinked, then focused on a group of men in armor, lugging heavy kit bags in through the door of the marquee. “This doesn’t add up—” she began. Then one of the armored figures lifted the awning higher, to help his mates: and she got a glimpse at what was going on inside.

  “Officers, we’re not dressed for this party and I think we should get out of here right now.”

  “But they—” began Pike.

  “Listen to the agent.” O’Grady grimaced and started the engine. “Okay, where do you want me to go, ma’am?”

  “Let’s just get out of the line of sight. Keep moving, within a couple of blocks. I’m going to phone for backup.”

  “Is it a terror cell? Here?”

  She met his worried eyes in the mirror. “Not as such,” she said grimly, “but it’s nothing your department can handle. Once you drop me off you’re going to be throwing up a cordon around the area: my people will take it from here.” She hit a different speed-dial button. “Colonel? Herz. You were right about what’s going on here. I’m pulling out now, and you’re good to go in thirty…”

  Rudi squinted into the sunlight and swore as he tried to gauge the wind speed. The walls of Castle Hjorth loomed before him like granite thunderclouds—except they’re far too close to the ground, aren’t they? He shook his head, fatigue adding its leaden burden to his neck muscles, and glanced at the air speed indicator once more. Thirty-two miles per hour, just above stall speed, too high… the nasty buzzing, flapping noise from the left wing was quieter, though, the ripstop nylon holding. He leaned into the control bar, banking to lose height. Small figures scurried around the courtyard below him as he spotted the crude wind sock he’d improvised over by the pump house. Okay, let’s get this over with.

  The ultralight bounced hard on the cobblestones, rattling him painfully from spine to teeth, and he killed the engine. For a frightening few seconds he wondered if he’d misjudged the rollout, taking it too near the carriages drawn up outside the stables—but the crude brakes bit home in time, stopping him with several meters to spare. “Phew,” he croaked. His lips weren’t working properly and his shoulders felt as stiff as planks: he cleared his throat and spat experimentally, aiming for a pile of droppings.

  Rudi had originally intended to go and find Riordan and make his report as soon as he landed, but as he took his hands off the control bar he felt a wave of fatigue settle over his shoulders like a leaden blanket. Flying the ultralight was a very physical experience—no autopilots here!—and he’d been up for just over three hours, holding the thing on course in the sky with his upper arms. His hands ached, his face felt as if it was frozen solid, and his shoulders were stiff—though not as stiff as they’d have been without his exercise routine. He unstrapped himself slowly, like an eighty-year-old getting out of a car, took off his helmet, and was just starting on his post-flight checklist when he heard a shout from behind. “Rudi!”

  He looked round. It was, of course, Eorl Riordan, in company with a couple of guards. He didn’t look happy. “Sir.” He stood up as straight as he could.

  “Why didn’t you report in?” demanded the eorl.

  Rudi pointed mutely at the remains of the radio taped to the side of the trike. “I came as fast as I could. Let me make this safe, and I’ll report.”

  “Talk while you work,” said Riordan, a trifle less aggressively. “What happened?”

  Rudi unplugged the magneto—no point risking some poor fool chopping their arm off by playing with the prop—and began to check the engine for signs of damage. “They shot at me from the battlements and the gate-house,” he said, kneeling down to inspect the mounting brackets. “Took out the radio, put some holes in the wing. I was two thousand feet up—they’ve got their hands on modern weapons from somewhere.” He shook his head. Shit. “If anyone’s going in—”

  “Too late.”

  Rudi looked up. Riordan’s face was white. “Joachim, signal to the duke: defenders at the Hjalmar Palace have guns. No, wait.” Riordan stared at Rudi. “Could you identify them?”

  “I’m not sure.” Rudi stood up laboriously. “Wait up.” He walked round the wing—tipped forward so that the central spar lay on the ground—and found the holes he was looking for. “Shit. Looks like something relatively large. They were automatic, sir, machine guns most likely. Didn’t we get rid of the last of the M60s a long time ago?”

  Riordan leaned over him to inspect the bullet holes. “Yes.” He turned to the messenger: “Joachim, signal the duke, defenders at the Hjalmar Palace have at least one—”

  “Two, sir.”

  “Two heavy machine guns. Go now!”

  Joachim trotted away at the double, heading for the keep. A couple more guards were approaching, accompanying one of Riordan’s officers. For his part, the eorl was inspecting the damage to the ultralight. “You did well,” he said quietly. “Next time, though, don’t get so close.”

  Rudi swallowed. He counted four holes in the port wing, and the wrecked radio. He walked round the aircraft and began to go over the trike’s body. There was a hole in the fiberglass shroud, only inches away from where his left leg had been. “That’s good advice, sir. If I’d known what they had I’d have given them a wider berth.” It was hard to focus on anything other than the damage to his aircraft. “What’s happening?”

  “Helmut and his men went in half an hour ago.” Riordan took a deep breath. “When will you be ready to fly again?”

  Whoa! Rudi straightened up again and stretched, experimentally. Something in his neck popped. “I need to check my bird thoroughly, and I need to patch the holes, but that’ll take a day to do properly. If it’s an emergency and if there’s no other damage I can fly again within the hour, but—” he glanced at the sky “—there’re only about three more flying hours in the day, sir. And I’ve only got enough fuel here for one more flight, anyway. It’s not hard to get on the other side, but I wasn’t exactly building a large stockpile. To be honest, it would help if we had another pilot and airframe available.” He shrugged.

  Riordan leaned close. “If we survive the next week, I think that’ll be high on his grace’s plans for us,” he admitted. “But right now, the problem we face is knowing what’s going on. You didn’t see any sign of the pretender’s army, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t out
there. Get your work done, get some food, then stand by to go out again before evening—even if it’s only for an hour, we need to know whether there’s an army marching down our throat here or whether the Hjalmar Palace is the focus of his attack.”

  Brill was one of the last people Miriam had expected to meet in California—and she seemed to have brought a bunch of others with her. “You’re unhurt?” Brill asked again, anxiously.

  The trio of Clan agents she’d turned up with—two men and a woman, sweating and outlandish in North Face outdoor gear—as if they’d just parachuted in from a camping expedition somewhere in the Rockies, in winter—had taken up positions outside the station. One of them Miriam half-recognized: Isn’t he the MIT postgrad? Perhaps, but it was hard for her to keep track of all the convoluted relationships in the Clan, and right now—covering the approach track with a light machine gun from behind a bullet-riddled steam car—he didn’t exactly look scholarly. Brilliana was at least dressed appropriately for New British customs.

  “I’m unhurt, Brill.” Miriam tried to hold her voice steady, tried not to notice Erasmus staring, his head swiveling like a bird, as he took in the scattered bodies and the odd-looking machine pistols Brill and the other woman carried. The Polis inspector and his men had tried to put up a fight, but revolvers and rifles against attackers with automatic weapons appearing out of thin air behind them “—Just got a bit of a headache.” She sat down heavily on the waiting room bench.

  “Wonderful! I feared you might attempt to world-walk.” Brill looked concerned. “I must say, I was not expecting you to get this far. You led us a merry chase! But your letter reached me in time, and a very good thing too. His grace has been most concerned for your well-being. We shall have to get you out of here at once—”

  Miriam noticed Brill’s sidelong glance at Burgeson. “I owe him,” she warned.