She waited for Brill to say something, but the silence dragged out. After a few seconds, she cleared her throat and continued. “So, I upset a bunch of applecarts, and the fallout included Matthias going over the wall. I expect someone’s been trying to negotiate with the feds, buying time, patching things up. And I expect everyone’s been scrambling to secure a workable Plan B for their particular faction. I’m not going to ask what the hell ClanSec or the Council or whoever thought they were doing, messing around with stolen nukes, it’s immaterial; I just want to note that it was a really bad idea, because from the feds’ point of view it turned the Clan from a minor irritant into a serious menace. You can negotiate with a nuisance, but you shoot menaces—isn’t that right?” She put her glass down and looked at Brill. After a minute, she asked: “Well?”
Brilliana looked uncomfortable. “I can’t talk about . . . certain . . . matters without getting permission first. But broadly speaking”—she looked at Miriam appraisingly—“you are speculating along the right lines.” She coughed. “But please, refrain from airing your speculation in public? Lest other factions conclude that you know more than you do, and attempt to silence you.”
Miriam’s left eyelid twitched. “I’ve had enough of that, thank you. Since even my dear mother is prone to, to . . .” It was too painful to continue. She rested one hand on her lap. “And what that bastard ven Hjalmar tried to do. Did.” A long pause. “It’s only been about six weeks. I could get an abortion. If I’m pregnant.”
Brill looked at her oddly. “If you did that, you’d be throwing away your best leverage.” She took another sip of brandy. “Because it’s Creon’s get, and you’ve got a fistful of witnesses to the betrothal, even—by implication—the pretender. That’s the throne to the Gruinmarkt, Miriam.”
“And it’s my body.” Miriam looked at her half-empty glass and twitched, then she picked it up again and swallowed it in a single mouthful. “Not that that seems to mean much to you people.”
Brilliana reached out and grabbed her hand. “Helge!”
“What?” Miriam glared at her across the breakfast bar.
“This world is not fair or just. But I swore I would look after you—”
“—Who to?”
“To you, and to your uncle: but that is not important. I swore an oath to protect you. I must tell you that as long as you carry the heir to the throne of Niejwein, nobody in the six families will dare to lift a finger against you. And if, if we are still alive in eight months, things will be different. The pretender will be dead and Angbard will need a regent’s council and at a minimum you will be on it. He told me, if necessary”—her voice cracked—“tell her that if she does this thing, all debts are canceled.”
“And if I don’t?” Miriam made as if to pull her arm back, but paused. “You know there are no guarantees. I’m old for this. Miscarriages aren’t that unusual in older pregnancies. And there’s only a fifty-fifty chance it’s a boy, anyway. What if it doesn’t work?”
“Then at least you tried.” Brill moderated her voice. “You came back willingly: That weighs in your favor. The more you do for us, the harder it becomes for your enemies to belittle or ignore you. Thus has it ever been.”
“You make it sound as if the Clan runs on honor.”
“But it does!” Brill’s expression of surprise took her aback. “How else do you control an aristocracy?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever understand you guys.” Miriam watched while Brill refilled both their glasses. “Hey. Suppose I’m pregnant? You want to go easy with that.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” She looked perplexed.
“The Surgeon-General’s—no, fuck it.” Miriam picked up the glass. “Next time you send someone out for a pizza, try and get them to buy me a pregnancy test kit . . . hell, make that two of them, just in case.” She sipped at her brandy defiantly. “So anyway, I kicked over an anthill. And Henryk’s faction try to tie me down, to control the damage, and it backfires spectacularly and sets Egon off. Is that how I’m reading it? While at the same time, I set Matthias off, which set the feds on us. Right?”
“Wrong.” Brill raised her glass and stared at it pensively. “It was a powder keg, Helge. Even before you returned, it was balanced on a sword’s edge. You unleashed chaos, but without you—you strengthened Angbard’s hand immensely, did you not notice that? And you have unleashed Huw. Don’t underestimate him. He has connections. You can be at the center of things if you play the hand you have been dealt.”
“There won’t be any center to be at, if the feds figure out a way of getting over here in force,” Miriam said darkly.
“They won’t.”
“Huh. But anyway. Is it alright to bring him back in?”
“What? You’ve finished spilling our innermost secrets?”
“Innermost secrets, feh: It’s just uninformed speculation. No, I need to talk to Huw. We need to talk, that is.”
“Oh. Alright.” Brill stood up and walked to the door. “Huw!”
A moment’s silence, then feet pounded down the staircase. “Yes? What’s—oh.”
“Come in, sit down,” Miriam called over. “We’ve got to head back to Boston tomorrow, or as soon as possible.”
“But—” Brill stopped. “Why?”
“No politics, remember?” Miriam twitched. “If Angbard’s ill, we can’t risk being too far away. But what’s really important—Huw, I want you to tell me all about how you went about probing that new world. Because I think once everyone gets past running around and being worried about the pretender, we are really going to need to work out how to open up new worlds.”
“Eh?” Brilliana stared at her. “I don’t see why that’s a priority right now.”
Miriam sighed heavily and pushed her glass away. “It wouldn’t be, if we were just up against another bunch of upstart aristocrats, or if the US government were entirely reliant on captured couriers. Huw, why don’t you tell her about what we were discussing earlier?”
“The, uh, wild speculation?”
“Yes, that. I’m tired, I don’t want to repeat myself, and I think she needs to know.” She stood up and stretched. “I’m going to catch a nap. Call me if anything happens.”
Despite the summer heat, the sky was overcast and gray; it was threatening to rain as Dr. James led Colonel Smith around the side of the big top. Two minders followed at a discreet distance. “How certain are you that the bad guys are on the other side of that siege tower?”
Eric gave it scant seconds of consideration. “Very. They wouldn’t have come out here and stuck a couple of hundred assets in a field for us to see without an extremely urgent motivation. These people aren’t into cat and mouse games—they’ve been staying under cover very carefully until now. This has got all the signs of an emergency operation, and we disturbed them in the middle of it. That map alone, that’s dynamite. And it checks out: The scaffolding is right in the middle of what looks like a major fortification in their world.”
Dr. James halted—so fast that Eric nearly stumbled. “Good!” A curious half-smile played around his lips. “Then I’ve got a solution for you, son.”
“A—” Eric did a double take. “Excuse me?”
“It’s a political problem.” James began walking again, more slowly this time. “We want to send them a message. They think they can play with us. They stole six nukes from the inactive inventory. The message we want to send is, ‘if you play with us we will mess you up.’ If I wasn’t a man of faith I’d be using the f-word, Colonel. We want to send them a message and we want to underline don’t f– with us in blood.”
“In my experience,” Eric commented, feeling light-headed, “messages signed in blood ought to be delivered in a way that ensures the recipients don’t live long enough to read them. Anything else is asking for trouble.”
“Spoken like a flyboy at heart. You’re absolutely right. Nuke ’em ‘til they glow, then shoot ‘em in the dark.” Eric stared at him until he nodded. �
�That’s a direct quote from the vice president, son. Although he probably lifted it from someone else.”
“That puts an interesting light on things,” Eric agreed, slightly aghast. The Secret Service’s code name for VPOTUS, DADDY WARBUCKS, was also a comment on his neoconservative leanings, but such bloodthirsty words coming from the executive branch were somewhat surprising, even post-9/11.
“So he’s getting you a piece of paper on the White House blotter,” Dr. James continued blandly, “ordering you to take control of the gadget retrieved from Government Center and to, ah, return it to the person or persons who so carelessly left it under the Blue Line platform with extreme prejudice.”
But! Smith’s tongue froze. “But!” He tried again. It came out as almost a squeak. “We don’t have nuclear release authority, we’re not in the chain of command, you can’t do that—”
“Son.” James’s smile turned icy. “They stole six of them. The United States does not give in to nuclear blackmail. Never mind that it would be embarrassing to return it to inventory, on the record that it went walkies on our watch; they stole it so you are going to shove it up their, their behind, so hard they can taste it. It’s the perfect solution. It’s completely deniable: They stole it, it went off in their hands. And it sends the right message. Mess with us and we will hurt you. And besides—” He slid his spectacles down his nose and pulled out a cleaning cloth. “Daddy Warbucks is real keen to make sure the FADMs work as designed. And Major Alvarez knows how to use them. He is part of the chain, and he’s seconded to us. He knows what the score is. Why do you think we’ve been recruiting so widely . . . and selectively?”
“Okay,” Eric said thoughtfully. “I follow the logic.” He paused. “But how are we going to deliver it? We’ve only got two mules.” He left unspoken the corollary: Are you willing to let me strap an atomic device on a timer to a captured Clan courier who hates our guts? It would violate so many protocols that the stack of charges would be higher than the Washington Monument.
“Well now.” James stopped smiling. “You remember your little visit out west? They got Preparation Fifteen working. I’m having one of them flown out here right now—this will be its first deployment.”
“Wait.” Eric raised a hand. “Preparation Fifteen? I only saw number twelve. The, the disappearing tissue.” Tissue harvested from the brain of a captured Clan member—God only knew what had happened to them because Eric certainly didn’t want to. “Is Fifteen what I think it is?”
“Yes.” Dr. James looked smug. “Push the button, watch the black box vanish. Along with whatever it’s bolted to, as long as it’s in a conductive sack and is isolated from earth. It’s single-use, unfortunately; it has to be assembled by hand and lasts for about sixteen hours. But during that time—”
“Have you tried bolting one to an airframe?” Eric asked. “Sorry.”
“Good question. We’d need two—one for the return trip—and they’re not that reliable yet, but it’s on the road map. You can test fly the helicopter if you want.” James noticed Eric’s expression. “That was a joke, son, you’re not expendable.”
“I’m not licensed for choppers,” Smith muttered, under his breath. Just in case you get any crazy ideas. “So how are we going to deliver the, the physics package?”
“The usual way.” James started walking again; they were almost round the circumference of the big top, the awning just in view around the curve of its flank. “Written orders are coming down from the White House; it’s WARBUCK’s toy, but he’s gotten BOY WONDER to sign off on it, and we’re—well, certain of the Joint Chiefs have been briefed about the PINNACLE BROKEN ARROW and it’s been made clear to them that this is necessary. I gather they’ve even gotten Chief Justice Bork on board. You’ll use your man Rand and his crew to prepare the gadget, they’re already cleared. They’ll hand it and the timer controller to Major Alvarez and Captain Hu, who have orders to put a timer controller on it, set to detonate sixty seconds after activation. It’s tamperproof; any attempt to disarm it other than by using the code-wheel to enter the locking key will make it detonate, but they’ll have the key to hand just in case. You will bolt the Preparation Fifteen unit to the detonation sequencer and put the gadget on top of the, the siege tower. You and the major will start the sequencer, push the button on the transport unit to send it across. If the transport unit fails, you can enter the disarm code and try again later. If it succeeds . . . it’s their problem. May they burn in hell for making us do this,” he added quietly.
Covered Wagon
To a soldier in an army dependent on muscle power, there are few sights as grim as a fortress occupied by an enemy force standing directly in the line of advance.
The Hjalmar Palace was palatial only on the inside: Squatting behind ominous earthworks at the fork of a major river, the face it presented to the world at large was eyeless and intimidating, scarred by cannon and fire. The merchant clan barons who had reinforced and extended the revetments around the central keep over the past fifty years had not been as parochial as their backwoodsman cousins. They’d scoured the historical archives of the Boston Public Library, keeping a wary eye on the royal army’s ironworks and the forging of their great siege bombards. Behind the outer wet moat and its fortified gatehouse, beyond the flat killing ground of the apron, the stone walls of the castle sank below ground level; backed by rammed earth to absorb the blows of any cannon balls that might make it over the rim, the walls rose harsh and steep before the deep dry moat.
It had taken treachery to get Otto’s men into the palace the first time round, using a shortcut revealed under duress by one of the residents. He’d been in the process of preparing defenses against the inevitable attempt to retake the complex, but the Clan had struck back with astonishing speed and terrifying force—a far cry from their dilatory defensiveness when outlying estates and villages were picked off. They weren’t really exerting themselves until we threatened their fortresses instead of their farms, Otto mused. It was an unpleasant realization. His defenses hadn’t been ready; they’d driven him out and he still didn’t know for sure precisely where they’d flooded back into the building from. But if nothing else, at least now he had a map of the internal layout. In principle that should make things easier. In practice—
He lowered his binoculars, then looked back. The fortress was still there, looming in the east, mocking him. Your bones, at my feet, it was saying. Your blood: my mortar.
A loud crack! caught his attention. Behind the line, the royal artillery’s light cannon began to fire, deep-throated coughs that spat clouds of smoke and sparks as they threw cold iron at the gatehouse. Stone chips flew, but the gatehouse was, itself, a castle in miniature, and beyond it the drawbridge across the wet moat and the sunken road allowed the defenders to reinforce it at need. The range was almost half a mile: The bombardment wouldn’t do much save to make the defenders keep their heads down. But that was better than nothing, Otto supposed. That, and the king’s plan—if it worked—might get them close enough to the defenses to at least have a chance. And if the king’s plan didn’t work, at least we’ve got an entire army, he told himself. Scant comfort, looking up at those ramparts.
Otto turned back to the clump of men waiting behind him. “Tomorrow the king’s going to reduce the gatehouse,” he announced. “Then it’s right on to the castle. But we’ve got an easy job to do. Once Raeder’s men finish moving the ammunition up, we’re to advance behind the vanguard and keep the witches’ heads down.” He looked his men in their eyes. “There will be no indiscriminate firing.” Not like the day before yesterday, when his undertrained men had burned through crates of priceless ammunition and wrecked a pair of irreplaceable M60 barrels. “There will be no damaged guns. If any man wrecks a witch-gun barrel by firing too fast, I’ll forge it to red-heat and beat him to death with it. And there will be no casualties, if I have any say in the matter.” He assayed a thin smile. His hetmen had been quietly gloomy, a minute ago; now they visibly cheered up. �
�The other side’s to do the dying today, and for our side, the fresh troops are to be the making of them. We’ll just stay nice and safe in the rear, and rain on the enemy battlements with lead.”
“Aye!” Shutz knew his cue, and put his leathery lungs into it. The sergeants and hetmen, not to mention the sprinkling of hedge-knights who’d joined his banner out of hope of self-enrichment, joined in enthusiastically.
“To your men, then, and let them know,” Otto said, allowing himself to relax slightly. “I will make an inspection round in the next hour, and give you your disposition before we advance, an hour before sunset.”
Night fell heavy on the castle walls, illuminated by the slow lightning of the field cannon and the echoing thunder, and the moans of the victims, growing weaker now. Olga stared from a darkened window casement, following the action around the base of the gatehouse, picked out in the livid green of night vision goggles. “The stupid, stupid bastards,” she hissed.
Behind her, Earl Oliver cleared his throat. The distant sounds of preparations, banging and scraping and swearing, carried through the door from the grand hall. “As long as the Pervert’s troops think we’re heavily invested, and unable to move . . .”
“But the waste! Lightning Child strike him blind.” Olga was not prone to fits of unreasoning rage. Bright, hot, anger was no stranger; but it passed rapidly, and she knew better than to let it rule her. But what the king had done outside the barred gate of the moat house was something else. It’s a deliberate provocation, she told herself. He doesn’t want or expect our surrender, so he thinks to unhinge us. And he was certainly trying hard. No one sane would have used noble prisoners as he had done outside the gatehouse, forgoing all hope of ransom and calling down eternal blood feud from their surviving relatives.
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