Dead Lies Dreaming

by Charles Stross

  Rupert snorted up the line of coke his butler had left out for him, then closed his eyes and waited for the sharp edge of his senses to kick in. Overindulging was dangerous, but coming to the attention of His Dark Majesty was even more deadly, and Rupe needed to be on top of his game right now. He killed the Guildhall speech, then pulled up one of his favorite videos: Ms. Starkey on the firing range in the sub-subbasement in London that wasn’t on the architectural drawings, working out her resentment on a paper target bearing Rupert’s silhouette.

  Eve was self-consciously aware of the cameras in her office: she suspected or knew about the ones in her bedroom and bathroom. Her inhibitions made her delightfully easy to torment: whenever she seemed to be losing her edge, Rupert could wind her up again by demanding salacious verbal fellatio. Her barely concealed revulsion kept her keyed up and tense, and whenever she had too much time to spare he found additional tasks to ensure she faced an eighty-hour work week just to keep her head above water. She was already a workaholic; adding sexual frustration turned her into an office demon and deprived her of the time to wonder why Rupert had head-hunted her in the first place. Such a happy coincidence that he’d been looking for a new PA just as Eve had been desperate for help with her mother. Who was clearly suffering from K syndrome—or, as the public knew it, Metahuman Associated Dementia—which had led Rupert to research her lineage and, on that basis, immediately reel her in and wrap her up as tight as any spider ever wrapped a fly. The rest had all fallen into place: setting up the trail of bread crumbs to lead Eve towards his goal, putting the Bond into position for cleanup afterwards. It was just a shame that Bernard had gotten greedy and tried to turn the fake auction into a genuine one. Eve had surprised him by pulling in her estranged brother, but Rupert didn’t really care who fell victim to the family curse, as long as the book was legitimately in his possession at the end.

  Certainly Rupert went to some lengths to keep his interest in her family and the history of their powers quiet, even though knowing he had such a powerful witch under his dominion turned him on. (Indeed, Rupert found power was the only aphrodisiac that worked worth a damn these days.) He wasn’t stupid enough to demand physical, as opposed to verbal, services that might push her into overt rebellion, a rebellion that would force him to fully play his hand. Indeed, Rupert only permitted himself to have physical contact with professionals these days—professionals who he paid to go away afterwards. But he quite enjoyed watching Eve at her most severe in leather and latex, compelled to work his will on some hapless fool who’d made the mistake of crossing him: and he could fantasize about her as he grew stiff. In fact … “Bathroom service request,” he commanded, holding down the call button on the panel by his cheek. “Send up the skinny blonde English chick, Jeeves, chop-chop that’s a good fellow.” He listened for a few seconds. “I’m in the tub. Lotioned, lubed, and shaved, I’m going to want it both ways. Jolly good, five minutes.”

  He let go of the call button with a contented sigh, then reached for his (splash-proof) phone. It occurred to him that he hadn’t heard from Eve or the Bond for a couple of hours. Which meant his probe of the deadly time-crossed mansion should be well underway by now. Obviously that, as well as the PM’s unpleasant little surprise, was why he was feeling tense. Well, a brisk session of splashy-splashy and another line of coke should help clear his head.

  And then, if they still weren’t ready to report, he’d have the chopper fly him to Knightsbridge, and he’d take personal control over the retrieval operation.

  BACK TO THE FUTURE

  Imp moved around restlessly as he filled Del in on the details of his checkered family history. He had to keep his hands and feet busy or he’d never have the nerve to finish it. Eventually he was done, and by the end of the sorry story he had made multiple printouts of the treasure map and explanatory notes. Rebecca tracked him around the room with a slightly glazed expression. Finally she just said “Fuuu…” and trailed off. Then she shook herself and remarked, “I need a smoke.”

  “Your stash. So. How about it? This evening, do we go after the book?”

  Rebecca nodded distractedly as she rummaged in her tin for a roll-up. “So it’s, there’s a reason it’s got to be you, yeah, I get that. And the money, and the thing with your sister and your mum, but it’s fucking harsh, man, you know?” She always kept a couple of finished joints in her tin, just in case. Now she lit one, sucked in a contemplative lungful, and offered it to Imp. He took it and joined her in silent contemplation for a minute. “Have you told GeeBee and Doc yet?” she asked.

  “I don’t know if they need to know.” He paused. “Was hoping they’d follow your lead.”

  “No promises.” She took the smoldering roll-up back. “It’s entirely up to them. But I get how it’s not just about the money for you.” She tipped her head back, setting the beads at the end of her dreads clattering. “I want to bring Wendy along on the job.”

  “No.”

  “Your sis got HiveCo off our ass. She’s not hunting us—”

  “I said no!”

  “Mellow out, asshole.” Del thrust her joint at him. After a moment he took it.

  “Why,” he said, then puffed furiously. Somebody had once told him that every time you toke, a policeman dies: Imp didn’t believe a word of it, but he was all in favor of testing the theory.

  “She’s made us. That’s for one thing. But she let me go. That’s for ’nother. She’s not a cop. She works security. And she’s well hard. You—” She poked Imp in the ribs with a bony finger—“are not hard. Doc is not hard. Game Boy is butter. And what you’re telling me you want to do, it needs hard.”

  “Still saying no.” But Imp was listening.

  “I can’t carry you all on my own.” She pointed at the treasure map. “I get that you got to start out on the top floor, but the route doesn’t end in the house. See that side-door? What do you think 1888 means? This arrow, pointing at Whitechapel. What do you think that’s about? I’ll tell you what it’s about: Remember the way the rooms are full of old shit the further you go, that staircase Doc told us about with the air raid sirens?” She tapped the map. “I want Wendy ’coz Wendy is muscle an’ Whitechapel in 1888 is like no fucking way, man, it’s a fucking rookery. Go heavy or don’t go.”

  “But surely they’ll greet time travellers like us with flowers!” Imp said, with a tilt of his head so subtle Rebecca almost thought he was serious for a moment. “Point taken.” He looked pensive. “Afterwards—”

  “Your big sis just tripled the fee, din’t she? That Dilbert Wendy works for in his troll-office, bet you he isn’t paying her five hundred a day.”

  “Oh!” The penny dropped. Unnoticed, the joint guttered and died in a wisp of smoke. “You think I should hire her.”

  Del snorted. “Money talks, bullshit walks. Pay her—but not too much,” she advised. “Offer five hundred under the table, maybe go to two thousand. It’s for one day, like? It’s good money. But it’s not so much money you’ll regret it later an’ try to stiff her.”

  “You just want me to pay your girlfriend,” Imp jabbed, but the barb was blunt.

  Del nodded: “I do, I do.” A feral grin split her face. “You saw what she could do with a bow and arrows? Dontcha want her on the raid team if the job goes bad?”

  “Let me make a phone call,” Imp said abruptly. He pulled his phone out. “Hi, Evie? Yeah, it’s me. Got a question. Did you by any chance pull HiveCo off our back?” He listened for a bit, then caught Del’s eye and nodded minutely. “Thanks, good to hear.” He listened some more. “Yeah, we’re talking it over now. I think it’s a goer—wait, when? Tonight, really? You need it by lunchtime tomorrow? Or what?” He turned pale. “Okay, that’s good to know. I’ll see what I can do. Hey, can I bum an extra five thou off you for extra muscle—” He stopped. “Yes, yes it’s the thief-taker. Del says I should hire her and I thought—” He stared at his phone—“You what?”

  He hung up and stared at Del.

  “Wh
at?” asked Del.

  “My sister.” He shook his head. “She says she’ll square it with HiveCo and get your girl assigned to us.” He shook his head again. “Shoulda expected that from Eve. She takes care of business.”

  “Why tonight?” asked Del. Her ear twitched at the sound of footsteps descending the main staircase.

  “Her boss is coming home and he expects her to hand him the manuscript tomorrow.” Imp was clearly trying hard not to roll his eyes. “So it’s all hurry up and get it done right now.”

  “Lie down with the man, get up with man-crabs.” Del shrugged. “What can you do?”

  “Call Wendy,” Imp told her. “If you can figure out a way to bring her over without her knowing exactly where we are that’d be good, but don’t sweat it: if Eve’s hiring, we’re covered. Meanwhile, I’m going to talk to the boys.”

  * * *

  A light rain was falling when Del met Wendy outside the tube station.

  “Hey, Becca.” Wendy’s grin was contagious. “Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

  “Yeah, well, about that.” Del scuffed her boot on the pavement and glared at an officiously busy businessman who was paying too much attention to his phone to think about dodging. “Wanna see the clubhouse? Imp invited you.”

  “Imp—” Wendy’s eyes narrowed. “You know I’m not going to shop you, but if my employers—”

  Del took Wendy’s arm and threaded it around her elbow. “Taken care of,” she said. “Our mystery employer is hiring you as we speak, to help us with a little job tonight.”

  “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

  “No—” Del stopped, tugged the other woman closer, and kissed her cheek—“I’ll make it up to you.”

  “I am going to regret this.” But Wendy followed her lead.

  Del gave zero fucks about Imp’s fit of the vapors over showing Wendy where they lived. Yeah, it had been Imp’s family’s house for generations, but it wasn’t now. They were unwelcome squatters who could be evicted or arrested at any moment. Imp needed a reminder before he put down roots.

  Del circled around the front of the palace, surreptitiously watching Wendy’s face for signs of the disturbing royalty-worship to which so many white English people seemed to be prone—as if purple parasitic mind wasps had laid the eggs of imperial mind-control slavery in their heads, so that perfectly rational people snapped to attention like so many zombies at the first sign of a coat of arms—then led her round the back of the high-walled garden, secretly relieved when the spikey ex-cop passed the test. “What?” asked Wendy.

  “Just checking.” Del gave her a smile. “C’mon.”

  “I don’t think this can be—what the fuck?”

  “Welcome to Neverland.”

  “No, this can’t be right—” Del rattled her front door keys under Wendy’s nose. “Wow.”

  “Used to be in Imp’s family,” Del told her. “C’mon in.”

  There was a fancy dress party going on inside the games room, and it was Del’s turn to be all what the fuck, man? at her crew. As for Wendy, she was having a hard time not catching flies in her mouth.

  Imp, who had pulled out his court-appearances suit, was strutting around the room cooing portentous instructions at Doc and Game Boy, with his chest puffed up like a male wood pigeon in mating season. In and of itself this was not entirely unprecedented, but the weird thing was that Game Boy and Doc were going along with it. Game Boy looked particularly dapper in wing collar and top hat; Doc looked like a cadaverously Victorian version of himself.

  “What’s going on?” asked Wendy.

  Doc thrust a laser-printed treasure map at her. “We’re going back to the 1880s,” he said, as Imp snapped his fingers at Game Boy.

  “You’ll need outfits,” said Imp, pointing at a wheeled rail sagging with Victorian ladies’ gowns.

  “What the hell?”

  “We’re going on an adventure,” said Imp; “time travel. You need to dress the part.” He pulled some papers from his inner pocket and fanned them in front of her. “My sister said she was hiring you via HiveCo—that makes it official, right? But it was Becca’s idea really, you’ll be doing her a favor, too—”

  Wendy narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you dare fuck with me,” she warned him. “What’s this about?” She took the papers and glanced at the top sheet. “This makes no sense—”

  “It’s a treasure map!” Game Boy said excitedly. “We’ve been asked to retrieve a lost manuscript from the 1880s. There’s a door into history and Imp can handle the book safely but he can’t get there and back on his own—”

  “My story, Game Boy,” Imp interrupted with ill-concealed temper. “So you wanted to know what was in that bank deposit box? It was an invitation to bid in an auction. This—” he shook his copy of the map at her—“is where our client who won the auction—the client who is hiring you on our behalf right now—wants us to go to pick it up, through the dream roads opening off the top floor of this house, leading back into the shadows of history.”

  “Time travel.” Wendy’s eyes crossed. “Fuck me, Gibson’ll have an aneurysm. The jurisdictional issues alone—” Imp smirked at her. “You seem to know a lot about this,” she said quellingly.

  “Long story.” Imp looked at her insolently. “In or out?” He shoved a bundle of banknotes at her. They were purple, they were plastic, they bore the face of the New Management beneath a royal crest that had been ancient when Egypt was born. “Just in case whatever the hell HiveCo pays you isn’t enough.”

  Wendy counted the money. “Two thousand.” Del could see the gears turning in her mind. “We’re not stealing anything?”

  “I don’t think so,” Imp said carefully. “The book was hidden by its owner, misfiled in a private library in 1888. My sis—the winning bidder—bought the location and title to the lost manuscript. That side of things is entirely legal. The library was bombed during the Blitz. Our job is just to go back in time and retrieve it.” He twitched slightly.

  “Tell me. Everything.” Wendy gave him a hard stare.

  “Why don’t you pick something to wear?” He gestured at a screened-off area in front of the windows: “I can explain while you get changed. You, too, Del. When you’re both ready—if you still want in—we can go upstairs and get started.”

  * * *

  By the pricking in her thumbs and the soreness of her conscience, it slowly came to Eve that she might, conceivably, possibly, however innocently, have fucked up.

  Item: Rupert wanted the AW-312.4 concordance. Good enough.

  Item: He’d sent the Bond to take care of loose ends, like opposition bidders. Which was standard operating practice.

  Item: Loose ends could conceivably include anyone below her level who knew about the acquisition. Now, that was not so good.

  Item: She’d commissioned Jeremy to take care of the retrieval, which was necessary because Jeremy was one of the few people who had the background and training to handle a live codex, and he had an adequate supply of disposable minions to do the potentially fatal bits of the job.

  (And now that she came to think about it, was her current employment entirely earned on merit, or could it possibly be due to Rupert’s awareness of the existence of her brother and a desire to keep the Impresario on a very long string…? No, don’t go there. That way lay paranoia and madness.)

  But:

  Item: It turned out that Jeremy was unaccountably fond of his posse of lost boys. Far more so than she’d initially believed, on the basis of the reports filed by the private eye she’d tasked with monitoring him. Conceivably, he might think of them not as disposable extras to burnish the proscenium of his life, but as full actors in their own right: co-stars in his production, so to speak. In which case, he might prove unwilling to expend them as the job required. If they died, would he be angry with her? Indeed, if she didn’t take measures to ensure their safety, would he ever talk to her again?

  One benefit of working for Rupert was access to sp
ecialist services. She’d prudently consulted a very exclusive numismatist that morning. “Hello, darling, it’s me again? Rupert needs an assortment of copper and silver coins dated between 1820 and 1885, with a total face value of one guinea. At least six in shillings and another twelve in sixpence, shillings, and half-crowns; the rest is fine in copper … Really? You can do that? Perfect! Preferably not polished or cleaned up in any way. Oh, and can you courier it over to me at the front desk within the hour? It’s urgent.”

  The longer she stared at her printout of the treasure map and considered the starting point—the old family manse—the more worried she became. Jerm, the ambitious little shitweasel, had taken on the job because his eyes were bigger than his stomach and he’d never learned not to attempt to eat anything bigger than his own head. He was out of his depth, and it was her fault. Worse: if he accomplished the mission, Rupert might well take steps to eliminate him because he knew too much. (And because it would further isolate Eve, of course, but that was a given with Rupert.)