The Traders' War (Merchant Princes Omnibus 2) (47 page)

Her earphone bleeped, breaking her out of the introspective haze. ‘Yes?’ she asked, keying the throat pickup.

‘Judith, I think you’d better come back in. Don’t bother suiting up, it’s safe for now, but there’s bad news along with the good.’

‘On my way.’ She put her coffee down. ‘Wait here,’ she told Rich, who nodded gratefully and took her place in the swivel chair.

When she straightened up inside the warehouse she found it bright and claustrophobic, the air heavy with masonry dirt and the dust of years of neglect. It reminded her of a raid on a house in
Queens she’d been in on, years ago: one the mob had been using to store counterfeit memory chips. Someone here had found the long-dead light fitting and replaced the bulb. Seen in proper
light, the finned cylinder looked more like a badly made movie prop than a bomb. Two figures in orange inflatable suits hunched over the open tail of the gadget, while another was busy taking a
screwdriver to the fascia of an instrument cart that was wired into it. Dr. Rand stepped around the rounded front of the cylinder: ‘Ah, Agent Herz. As I said, I’ve got good news and bad
news.’ There was an unhealthy note of relish in his voice.

Judith gestured towards the far end of the lockup from the NIRT team operatives working on the ass-end of the bomb. ‘Tell me everything I need to know.’

Rand followed her then surprised Judith by unzipping his hood and throwing it back across his shoulders. He reached down to his waist and turned off the hissing air supply. His face was flushed
and what there was of his hair hung in damp locks alongside his face. ‘Hate these things,’ he said conversationally. ‘It’s not going to go off,’ he added.

‘Well, that’s a relief. So, is this the one?’

‘That would be the bad news.’ Rand frowned. ‘Let me give it to you from the top.’

‘Be my guest.’ Sarcasm was inappropriate, she realized, but the relief –

‘I’ve met this puppy before,’ said Rand. ‘It’s a B53-Y2. We built a bunch of them in the sixties. It’s a free-fall bomb, designed to be hauled around by
strategic bombers, and it’s not small – the physics package weighs about six thousand pounds. It’s an oralloy core, high-purity weapons-grade uranium rather than plutonium, uses
lithium deuteride to supply the big bang. We made a few hundred, but all but twenty-five were dismantled decades ago. It’s basically the same as the warhead on the old Titan II, designed to
level Leningrad in one go. The good news is, it won’t go off. The tritium booster looks to be well past its sell-by date and the RDX is thoroughly poisoned by neutron bombardment, so the best
you’d get would be a fizzle.’ He looked pensive. ‘Of course, what I mean by a fizzle is relative. A B53 that’s been properly maintained is good for about nine megatons
– this one would probably top off at no more than a quarter megaton or so, maybe half a megaton.’

‘Half a –’ Her knees went weak. She stumbled, caught herself leaning against the nose of the hydrogen bomb, and recoiled violently.
A quarter of a megaton?
The flash
would be visible in New York City: the blast would blow out windows in Providence. ‘But – ’

‘Calm down, it’s not going to happen. We’ve already made sure of that.’

‘Oh. Okay.’
Jesus. If that’s the good news
–

‘Funny thing about the timer, though,’ Rand said meditatively. ‘Sloppy wiring, dry joints where they soldered it to . . . well, the battery ran down a long time ago. Judging by
the dust it’s been there for years.’

‘Timer?’

‘Yes.’ Rand shook himself. ‘It was on a timer. Should have gone off ages ago, taking Boston and most of Cambridge with it. Probably back during the Bush I or Reagan
administrations, at a guess. Maybe even earlier.’

‘Holy, uh, wow.’

‘Yes, I can see why you might say that. And we are going to have
real
fun combing the inventory to find out how this puppy managed to wander off the reservation. That’s not
supposed to happen, although I can hazard some guesses . . .’

‘Huh. Six – did you say it weighs six thousand pounds?’

‘Well, of course it does; did you think air-dropped multimegaton hydrogen bombs were small enough to fit in a back pocket? Why do you think we ship them around in B-52s?’

‘Uh. And it’s a, like, a single unit? You couldn’t dismantle it easily?’

‘No, I don’t think so. We’ll need to truck it away intact and examine it for – ’

‘Then we’ve messed up.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because it’s
too big
. A world-walker can’t haul something any larger than they can lift. So it doesn’t belong to the Clan.’

‘Oh,’ said Rand.

‘You can say that again.’ Judith turned to head back to the hole in the wall. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go, this isn’t Family Trade business anymore, okay? Run it
through the normal NIRT channels, I’ve got to go report to the colonel now. See you around.’ And with that, she ducked through the hole in the lockup wall, and headed back to the car
park. Rich was waiting next to the truck. ‘Come on,’ he said, waving at her car.

‘What’s the story?’

‘It’s a nuke, but it’s not our nuke,’ Herz said as she started the car.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Come on, I’ve got to get back to the office and report to Eric.’

‘Shit.’

‘Language, please.’ Judith put the car in gear and crept out of the parking lot, leaving the gray NIRT van and the orange rubber-suited atomic bomb disposal specialists behind like a
bad memory. ‘What a way to start the week.’ Somewhere out there in the city there was another bomb. Matt knew where: but Matt was dead, and Mike Fleming had failed to wheedle the
location of the bomb out of him before he died – all they knew was, it was on a one-year countdown, and they had maybe two hundred days left to find it before they had to evacuate three or
four million folks from Boston and Cambridge to avoid a disaster that would make 9/11 look like a parking violation.

*

Miriam had run through the emotional gamut in the past six hours, oscillating wildly between hope and terror, despair and optimism. Being taken out of the servant’s room
and escorted up to the top of this rickety pile of brick and lath by a pair of thugs, and ushered into a garret where a middle-aged woman with a kindly face and eyes like a hanging judge sat at a
writing desk, and then being expected to give an account of herself, was more than Miriam was ready for. All she had to vouch for this woman was Erasmus Burgeson’s word, and there was a lot
more to the tubercular pawnbroker than met the eye. He had some very odd friends, and if he’d misread her when he suggested she visit this ‘Lady Bishop’, then it was possible
she’d just stuck her head in a noose. But on the other hand, Miriam was here right now, and there were precious few alternatives on offer.

‘I’d quite understand if you thought I was mad,’ Miriam said, shivering slightly – it was not particularly warm in this drafty attic room. ‘I don’t really
understand everything that’s going on myself. I mean, I thought I did, but obviously not.’ She felt her cheek twitch involuntarily.

Margaret Bishop leaned forward, her expression concerned. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

Miriam twitched again. ‘No, I’m –’ She took a deep breath. ‘A few bruises, that’s all. And I’m lucky to be alive, people have been trying to kill me all
evening.’ She took another deep breath. ‘Sorry . . .’

‘Don’t be.’ Lady Bishop rose to her feet and opened the door a crack. ‘Bring a pot of coffee, please. And biscotti. For two.’ She closed it again. ‘Would you
like to tell me about it? Start from the beginning, if you please. Take your time.’ She sat down again. ‘I must apologize for the pressure, but I really need to know everything if I am
to help you.’

‘You’d help me?’

‘You’ve been very useful to us in the past. We tend to be suspicious, for good reasons – but we look after our friends. But I need to know more about you before I make any
promises. Do you understand?’

Miriam’s vision blurred: for a moment she felt vertiginous, as if the stool she sat upon was half a mile high, balanced in a high wind. Relief combined with apprehension washed over her.
Not alone
– It was like waking suddenly from a nightmare. The world had been narrowing around her like a prison corridor for so long that the idea that there might be a way out, or
even people who would help her willingly, seemed quite alien for a moment. Then the dizziness passed. ‘I’ll tell you everything,’ she heard herself saying, in a voice hoarse with
gratitude. ‘Just don’t expect too much.’

‘Take your time.’ Lady Bishop sat back on her chair and waited while Miriam composed herself. ‘We’ve got all night.’

‘There are at least three worlds.’ Miriam squeezed her tired eyes shut as she tried to fumble her way towards an explanation. ‘I’m told there may be more, but nobody
knows how to reach them. The people who
can
reach them . . . they’re my relatives, apparently. It’s a hereditary talent. It’s what geneticists call a recessive trait,
meaning you can’t inherit it unless it was present in both sides of your family tree. It’s difficult to do – painful if you do it too often, and you need a focus, a kind of
knotwork design to look at to make it work – but it’s made the families, the people who have the ability, rich. The world they live in is very backward, almost medieval: something went
wrong, some blind alley in history a couple of thousand years ago, but they’ve risen into the nobility of the small feudal kingdoms that exist up and down the New England coastline.

‘I’m . . . I’m an outsider. About fifty years ago the families started killing one another, there was a huge blood feud – what they called a civil war. My mother, who was
pregnant at the time, was on the losing side of an ambush: she fled to the, the other of the three worlds we know about. Uh, I should have explained that the Clan families didn’t know about
this one at the time. There’s a lost offshoot family of the Clan who ended up here more than a hundred years ago, who can travel from here to the Clan’s world: they were the ones who
kept the civil war going by periodically assassinating Clan leaders and pointing the evidence at the other families. The other world, the one I grew up in, is very different from either this one or
the one the Clan comes from.’

There was a knock on the door. Miriam paused while one of the guards came in and deposited a tray on the table where Lady Bishop had been working on her papers. The coffee pot was silver, and
the smell drifting from it was delicious. ‘May I . . . ?’

‘Certainly.’ Margaret Bishop poured coffee into two china mugs. ‘Help yourself to the biscotti.’ The guard departed quietly. ‘Tell me about your world.’

‘It’s –’ Miriam frowned. ‘It’s a lot less different from yours than the Clan’s world is, but it’s still very different. As far as I can tell, they
were the same until, um, 1745. There was an uprising in Scotland? A Prince Charles Stuart? In my world he marched on London and his uprising was defeated. Savagely. A few years later a smoldering
war between Britain and France started – and while France eventually won a paper victory, there was no invasion of England. The wars between France and Britain continued for nearly eighty
years, ending with the complete defeat of France and the British dominating the oceans.’

Lady Bishop shook her head. ‘What is the state of the Americas in this world of yours?’ she asked.

‘There was a revolution . . . Why, is it important?’

‘No, just fascinating. So, continue. Your world is very different, it seems, but from a more recent point of change?’

‘Yes.’ Miriam took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Something went wrong here. I think it was something to do with the French administration of England after the invasion, in the
eighteenth century. In my world, a lot of the industrialization you’ve had here in the past hundred years happened in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, in England. Over in this
world it started late and it’s still happening here, in New Britain. Things are further ahead in the United States, the nation on this continent where I come from. And in other countries in
the other world. That doesn’t mean things are necessarily better – they’ve got big problems, too. But no kings, at least not many: most countries got rid of them over the past
century. And better science and technology. Cures for tuberculosis.’

‘How do your relatives, this Clan, account for their power? I’d have thought that if they live in a backward society it would be difficult to rise.’

Miriam put her mug down. ‘They’re smugglers,’ she said bluntly. ‘In their own world, they are the only people who can get messages across the continent in anything less
than weeks. They use the U. S. postal service to accomplish miracles, in the terms of their own world. And they’ve got modern firearms and lots of toys, because in my world they smuggle
illegal drugs: they can guarantee to get them past the Coast Guard and police and border patrols. They’re immensely rich merchant princes. But they’re trapped by the society they live
in. The old nobility don’t accept them, the peasants resent them, and the crown –’ She shook her head, unable to continue.

‘You said someone tried to kill you today. Which world did this happen in?’

‘The Clan’s,’ Miriam said automatically. She picked her mug up, took a sip, rolled it nervously between her palms. ‘I, when they discovered me, I needed to figure out a
way to make some space for myself. I’m not used to having a big extended family who expect me to fit in. And there aren’t enough of them. They wanted me to marry for political reasons.
I tried to – well, I made a big mistake. Tried to get political leverage, to make them leave me alone. Instead I nearly got myself killed. They left the, the political marriage as a
compromise, a way out. Tonight was meant to be the official betrothal. Instead . . .’

She put the mug down. ‘The groom is dead. No, no need for condolences – I barely knew him. There was an attack on the betrothal party, and I only just managed to escape. And the
United States government has found out about the Clan and discovered a way to get at the Clan’s world.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Hey, I wonder if Angbard knows?’