Charles Stross - The Merchant’s War

"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 came, 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 linger, and stilled 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 tritle 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 gatehouse," 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 Hike'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 light, 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.

Erasmus chuckled dryly. "Leave me alive and I'll consider the debt settled in my favor."

"I think we can do better than that!" Brill drew breath. "I remember you." She glanced at Miriam. "How much does he know?"

"How much do you think?" Miriam stared back at her. This was a side to Brill that she didn't know well, and didn't like: a coldly calculating woman who came from a place where life was very cheap indeed. "They were lying in wait for us because they intercepted your telegram. The least we can do is get him to his destination. Leave him in this, and..." She shrugged.

Brill nodded. "I'll get him out of here safely. Now, will you come home willingly?" she asked.

The silence stretched out. "What will I find if I do?" Miriam finally replied.

"You need not worry about Baron Henryk anymore." Brill frowned. "He's dead; but were he not, the way he dealt with you would certainly earn him the disfavor of the council. He overplayed his hand monstrously with the aid of Dr. ven Hjalmar. The duke is minded to sweep certain, ah, events into the midden should you willingly agree to a plan he has in mind for you." Her distant expression cracked: "Have you been sick lately? Been unable to world-walk? Is your period late?"