The Revolution Business Page 13

  Erasmus was going over the next morning’s news with John Winstanley and Oliver Smith, the party commissioners for truth and justice, when word of the abdication came in.

  Smith was reading down a plate, his lips moving silently as he read the raised bright mirror-text of the lead: “. . . and we call upon all right minded men to, hang on, here’s a dropped—”

  “Yes, yes,” Erasmus said acidly. “No need for that, leave it to the subs. What I need to know is, do you think it’s sound?”

  “Is it sound?” Winstanley nodded lugubriously. “Well, that’s the—”

  The door rattled open. Burgeson looked up sharply. “What is it?” he demanded.

  The messenger boy—or youth—looked unabashed: “It’s Mr. Burroughs, sir! He wants you to come, quick like! ‘E says it’s important!”

  Erasmus stared at him. “Where is he?” he demanded.

  “ ’E’s in the mayor’s mansion, sir! There’s news from out east—a train just came in, and there was folks on it who said the king’s abdicated!”

  Erasmus glanced at Smith. “I think you’d better hold the front page,” he said mildly, “I’m going to go see what this is all about.”

  It was an overcast, gray summer’s day outside, with a thin fog from the bay pumped up to a malignant brown haze by the smoke from a hundred thousand stoves and steam cars on this side of the bay. Fishing boats were maneuvering around the wharves, working their way in and out of the harbor as if the crisis of the past weeks was just a distant rumor. From the front steps, waiting as his men brought the car round to him, Erasmus could just make out the dots of the picket fleet in the distance, military yachts and korfes riding at anchor to defend the coast against the approach of French bombardiers or submarines. He eyed them warily every morning, half afraid they would finally make their move, choosing sides in the coming struggle. Word from the cadres aboard the ships was that the sailors were restive, unpaid for months now, but that the officers remained crown loyalists for the most part. Should putsch come to shove, it would be an ugly affair—and one that the realm’s foreign enemies would be keen to exploit. Which was probably why John Frederick had not tried his luck by ordering the picket into the bay to put down the provisional government forces. It was a card he could only play once, and if it failed, he might as well dust off Cromwell’s block. Although if the messenger lad was right . . .

  By the time he arrived at the mayoral mansion, a light rain was falling and the onshore breeze was stiffening, blowing the smog apart. Erasmus paused for a deep breath as he stepped out of the back of the car, relishing the feel of air in lungs he’d almost despaired of a year ago. Where are you now, Miriam? he wondered briefly. It was her medication that had cured him, of that he was certain, even though the weird pills had turned his urine blue and disrupted his digestion. What other magic tricks do you have up your sleeve? It was something he’d have to explain to the chairman, sooner or later—if he could work out how to broach the subject without sounding as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “Follow,” he said over his shoulder. The two bodyguards and the woman from the stenography pool moved hastily into position.

  The committee offices on the first floor were seething—nobody was at their posts except for the militia guards, their rifles clenched in nervous hands. “Where’s the chairman?” Erasmus demanded when they came to the first checkpoint.

  “He’s in the committee room, sir,” said the senior man—Erasmus, being a regular enough visitor (and a member of the committee to boot), ranked above the regular interrogation such a question might have drawn from a stranger. “Can you tell us what’s going on?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Erasmus grimaced. “There’ll be a statement later.” He glanced at his stenographer. “Minute that for me.” He swept through the corridors towards the former dining room that Sir Adam had requisitioned as a meeting place for the committee, only pausing at the door where two heavies in the red, white, and blue armbands of internal security waited with shotguns. “Erasmus Burgeson, commissioner for information, here to see the chairman,” announced one of his guards.

  “Aye, right.” These guards were going by the book. Erasmus waited patiently as the senior one uncapped a speaking tube and announced him, then listened for instructions. “You’re to go in, sir. Your party”—a thumb gesture—“can wait in the guardroom.”

  Burgeson nodded at them. “You heard him.” And then he opened the door.

  The Committee for Democratic Accountability was neither accountable, nor democratic, nor even much of a committee—these words were all statements of aspiration, as much as anything else, for in the early days of building a better nation these words held power, and it was Sir Adam’s hope that his institutions would grow into their names. Personally, Erasmus thought this was dangerously naïve—he’d read a number of books that Miriam had loaned him, strange books describing the historical processes of her even stranger world—but it was at least worth a try. Not all revolutions ended up eating their young, and heaven knew it was an opportunity to break with the dead hand of the oppressive past, but the thought that this revolution might go the way of some of those in Miriam’s books had kept him awake into the small hours on more nights than he cared to think about.

  Inside the committee room, there was an atmosphere of euphoria. Sir Adam was standing behind the lectern, and about half the delegates from the district councils seemed to have packed themselves in. Someone had opened a crate of cava and orange farmers from down south were toasting shipyard workers from the east bay with foam sparkling from their chipped tea mugs. Erasmus grabbed the first shoulder he could catch inside the doorway. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “It’s the king!” The man grinned broadly. “He’s gone! Packed up his bags in New London and ran. The garrison in Montreal picked him up!”

  A sharp stab of anxiety gnawed at Erasmus. “Are they ours?”

  “They mutinied three weeks ago and elected a workers’ and soldiers’ council! They’re with the white guards!”

  Erasmus blinked. “Excuse me.” He began to elbow his way through the crush towards the lectern where Sir Adam was earnestly holding forth to a gaggle of inner party graybeards who remained obdurately sober in the face of the collective derangement.

  “Ah, Erasmus.” Sir Adam smiled. “I gather the good news has reached you.”

  “I need to know where it came from”—Erasmus pointed a thumb over his shoulder—“if we’re to get the word out where it’s needed. I’ve got a stenographer waiting in the guardroom, and a front page to fill by three.”

  “That’s easy enough.” Burroughs gestured. “You know Edward MacDonald, I take it.”

  Erasmus nodded. “We’ve met.” Ed, Lady Bishop’s right hand man, nodded back, cautiously.

  “He brought certain other news of your activities out east, news that I personally consider would stretch the bounds of credibility—if anyone less than Lady Bishop vouched for their truth.” Burroughs contemplated Erasmus, an expression of perplexity on his face that reminded Burgeson of a school-teacher examining a pupil who had just done something that, while not actually deserving of punishment, was inexplicably wrong. “We’ll need to talk about it in due course.”

  “Yes, we will.” Erasmus surprised himself with the assurance of his answer. “But this isn’t the time for addressing long-term problems. We’ve got to get the word of these momentous events out first. Once the loyalists realize they have been abandoned by their false monarch, that will change the entire situation!” He nodded at Edward. “What’s happened out east? What can you tell me that I can print? I need pictures, damn it! Who witnessed the events?”

  The attack began an hour before dawn. Otto ven Neuhalle watched from a discreet distance as his men walked their precious M60s onto the front of the gatehouse from long range, firing parsimonious bursts—wary of his threats to damage any man who damaged his precious guns. The defenders declined to fire randomly into the dark, although a ghastly w
hite glare opened its unblinking eye above the barred front gate, casting long shadows across the beaten ground before it—shadows that promised pain and death to anyone who ventured into view of the firing slits in the walls.

  “Keep their heads down!” he shouted at Shutz and his men. “But watch for our own!”

  They didn’t have many minutes to wait. Creaking and squealing with an ominous rumble, two large wagons rolled round the shoulder of the hill, following the road that led to the gate. The bullocks that pulled them didn’t sound too happy, roaring and lowing beneath their heavy burden. Otto bared his teeth as he heard the voice of their driver and the crack of his whip.

  “This should be fun,” a familiar voice commented from behind him.

  Otto shivered as a chilly sweat broke out across the nape of his neck. “Your Majesty has the better of me.” He turned around slowly—it was a faux pas to turn one’s back on the monarch, and he had no desire to draw attention to it—and bowed deeply.

  “Rise.” The king gestured impatiently. The lance of royal bodyguards around him faced outward; the armor and colors he wore were indistinguishable from their uniform, but for the lack of an armband of rank. “Two minutes, no more. They should be shooting by now.”

  Otto found his tongue. “May I ask if the carts are for men or explosives, my liege? I need to prepare my men. . . .”

  “Explosives.” Egon nodded towards them. “The driver will take them up to the gate then set them off.”

  “The—oh.” Otto nodded. The driver would do what he was told, or his family would be done by as the king had decreed: probably something creatively horrible, to reinforce his reputation as a strong and ruthless monarch. “By your leave, I shall order my men to take cover just before the blast.”

  “We wish them to advance and provide covering fire for the cavalry immediately afterwards,” Egon added offhand.

  “Cavalry?” Otto bit his tongue, but even so the word slipped out first. Beyond the gatehouse was a wet moat, and then a steep descent into a dry moat before the gate into the castle’s outer battlements. Nobody in their right mind would use cavalry against the layered defenses of a castle!

  “Cavalry.” The royal grin was almost impish. “I hope you find it educational.”

  “My lord—” One of the guards cleared his throat.

  “Momentarily.” Egon stared at Otto. “I intend to surprise everyone, Baron. This is just the start.”

  Otto bowed his neck jerkily. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Go.” Dismissed, Otto turned to warn Shutz and his gunners about the wagons—and to leave the king’s disturbing presence. Behind him, Egon was mounting the saddle of a stallion from the royal stable. A pair of irreplaceable witch-clan night vision glasses hung from his pommel.

  The defenders were asleep, dead, or incompetent, Otto decided as he watched the wagons roll along the road towards the gatehouse. Or they’d been struck blind by Sky Father. The glaring hell-light cast a lurid glow across the ground before the gatehouse, but there was no shouted challenge, no crack of gunfire. What are they doing? He wondered. A horrid surmise began to gnaw at his imagination. They’re dead, or gone, and we’re advancing into their ground while they sneak through the land of the dead, to ambush us from behind-–

  Rapid fire crackled from the gatehouse, followed by a squealing roar of bovine distress: Otto breathed again. Not dead or gone, just incompetent. They’d shown little sign of movement earlier in the campaign, and despite their lightning-fast assault on the castle when he’d taken it, they’d failed to follow through. The witch-clan were traders, after all, lowborn tinkers, not knights and soldiers. He grinned as the wagon ground forward faster, the uninjured oxen panicked halfway to a stampede by the gunfire and the smell of blood. It had fifty yards to go, then forty—why aren’t they firing? Are they low on ammunition?—then twenty, then—

  Otto knelt close to the ground, bracing himself, mouth open to keep his ears from hurting. The moments stretched on, as he counted up to twenty heartbeats.

  “Is he dead?” called one of his gunners.

  “I think—” someone began to reply, but the rest of his comment was forestalled by a searing flash. A second later the sound reached Otto, a door the size of a mountainside slamming shut beside his head. The ground shook. A couple of seconds later still, the gravel and fragments rained down around the smoke-filled hole. “What was that?” Otto shouted, barely able to hear himself. It wasn’t like any powder explosion he’d ever heard, and he’d heard enough in his time. What’s the Pervert got his hands on now? he added silently, straightening up.

  The hell-light had gone out, along with the front of the gatehouse. The wagon hadn’t been small—there could have been half a ton, or even a ton, of explosives in it; whatever kind of explosives the king’s alchemists had cooked up, using lore stolen from the witches.

  Otto cleared his dry throat, spat experimentally. “Break them down, get ready to move out,” he shouted at Shutz. “The cavalry will be through here next.”

  Shutz looked baffled, then pointed to his ears. Otto nodded. “Scheisse.” He gestured at the now-silent machine guns, miming packing them and moving forward. Shutz nodded, then opened his mouth and began shouting orders. Or at least he appeared to be telling troopers what to do: Otto found to his bemusement that he couldn’t hear them.

  The ground was still shaking. Peering back up the road, it wasn’t hard for Otto to see why. Two more wagons were plodding grimly towards the pile of dust and smoke that had been the gatehouse—and behind them, what looked like a battalion of royal dragoons. In the predawn twilight they rode at no more than a slow walking pace. Otto shook his head; the ringing in his ears went on, but he was beginning to hear other sounds now. He raised his glasses, fumbled with the power button, and peered at the wagon. This one carried soldiers in helmets and half-armor, and a complicated mess of stuff, not the barrels of explosives he’d half-expected to see. “Interesting,” he murmured, looking round for a messenger. “You!”

  “My lord!” The man shouted.

  “Tell Anders to get his guns ready to move. We’re to cover this force.” He pointed at the approaching dragoons. “They’re going to break in. Go!” How they were going to break into the castle he had no idea, but Egon clearly expected them to do so, and Otto had more than a slight suspicion that the new explosives in the oxcart weren’t Egon’s only surprise.

  Strung out on caffeine and fatigue, Judith Herz suppressed a yawn as she watched the technicians with the handcart maneuver the device into position on the scaffold. There was a big cross spray-painted in the middle of the top level, and they were taking pains to move it so that it was centered perfectly. The size of a beer keg, with a briefcase-sized detonation controller strapped to it with duct tape, the FADM didn’t look particularly menacing. She glanced over at Rich Hall, who was sitting patiently in a director’s chair, the Pelikan case containing ARMBAND between his feet. Cruz was about, somewhere, of course: They were taking pains to keep it within arm’s reach at all times. Good, Judith thought tiredly. Everything’s ready, except for the PAL codes. And head office, of course, but they’d be on-site shortly. The sooner they could get everything hooked up, the sooner they could all go and get some well-earned sleep.

  A flicker of motion near the entrance to the tent caught her eye and she looked round. The new arrivals seemed tired: the colonel, talking animatedly to the man-in-black from the West Wing, a couple of aides following in their wake. Oh great, she thought: rubberneckers. “Wait here,” she hold the technicians, then walked down the ramp to meet the newcomers.

  “Colonel.” She smiled. “And, uh, Dr. James.”

  Smith glanced sidelong at him. “He’s our vertical liaison. With WARBUCKS.”

  “Dead straight.” Dr. James looked tired, too: The bags under his eyes suggested the lights had been burning late in the Naval Observatory grounds. “Let’s take a look at the package.”

  “We haven’t attached ARMBAND yet,” Judith began t
o say as Dr. James marched straight towards the scaffold.

  “Then do it, right now. We need to get this thing done.”

  What’s the sudden hurry? she wondered. “Yes. Sir.” She waved at Rich, who sat up sharply and mimed a query until she beckoned. “What’s up?”

  “Change of situation.” James was terse. “I have the PAL codes.” He tapped his breast pocket. “Colonel?”

  “Dr. James is here as an official observer for the White House,” Smith reassured her. “Also, we have Donald Reckitt from NNSA, Mary Kay Kare from, from the people who made ARMBAND, Richard Tracy from the Office of Special Plans—”

  The introductions went on until the scaffolding began to creak under their weight. Finally they worked their way down through the layers of observers and their credentials to the technical staff. “And Dr. Rand, who will confirm that the munition is release ready, check the connections to the detonation controller, and hand over to Major Alvarez and Captain Hu for deployment.”

  “Certainly. If you folks wouldn’t mind giving me some elbow room? . . .” Rand, fiftyish and somewhat bohemian in appearance, looked as irritated by the institutional rubbernecking as Herz felt. As FTO’s tame expert on these gadgets—indeed, as one of the nation’s leading experts—he’d studied under Teddy Taylor, although the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty meant that his expertise was somewhat abstract—he understood the FADMs as well as anyone else. And he ran through his checklist surprisingly rapidly. “All looking good,” he announced, finally. “Considering where it’s been.”

  “That’s enough about that.” Dr. James spoke sharply: “Not everyone here is briefed.”

  “Oh? Really.” Rand smiled lopsidedly as he straightened up. “Well that makes it alright then.” He patted the bomb, almost affectionately. “For what it’s worth, this one’s ready to go. Excuse me, ladies, gentlemen . . .”