Empire Games Series, Book 1(22)
Suddenly Helmut looked interested. “And what is that going to be, as you see it?”
“Revolutions typically run their course in a generation.” Miriam had been doing a lot of reading about revolutions. “Our job is to survive this one. Things look chaotic right now, but eventually there’s going to be a new normal, and I intend us to get back all the stuff you’re complaining about losing. Power, influence, wealth, a place in the sun.”
“All well and good,” said Helmut. “But how are you going to make our captors follow your agenda? Unless you can do that—” He sat down, clearly feeling that he’d made his point.
Miriam stared at him, perplexed: what more did he want? “We’re going to catalyze disruptive technological development—” she began, just as Iris cleared her throat. “What, Mom?”
“The problem is political, as usual. You youngsters never make sufficient allowances for that. You especially, Helmut; your tool of choice is the club, not the olive branch.” Then she looked at her daughter. “I found that book of the First Man’s writings most interesting. If your friend Erasmus can get me anything else by Sir Adam, or more reading matter of that kind, I’d be most grateful. And keep your own eyes open for useful signs in Sir Adam’s writings too. But I assure you, your plan will only work if he is willing to learn from the mistakes of other revolutions—and is receptive enough to contemplate a New Economic Policy.”
Miriam frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You’ve been focusing on the idea of technological development. But you’ve been doing it in isolation, looking at means without considering the ends.”
“But I have—the ends are the development of civilization—”
“Sir Adam Burroughs won’t see it like that!” Iris snapped. “You are thinking like a technocrat. But Adam, the First Man, is not a technocrat, he is a revolutionary. He has a vision of what should be, of a shining city on a hill, which is based—if I read him correctly—on the rights of man and woman. A vision that went out of fashion long ago in the United States. It was probably doomed by the failure of the First International, in the world you grew up in. Your late father would set you straight.”
Miriam flinched: Iris had raised her in exile in time line two, marrying Morris, an idealistic but ultimately ineffectual political activist. The kind of guy who had walked out of the Revolutionary Communist Party because they didn’t do enough charity work, feeding the sick and clothing the poor. “No, Miriam. We need to prove ourselves to Sir Adam by giving him tools that he considers useful, not what you consider important.”
“And what would these tools be?” Huw asked, intrigued by the turn the conversation was taking.
“Political levers, not shiny scientific toys.” Iris’s eyes twinkled. “That’s not to say that they cannot be the same thing, but presentation is all. Sir Adam has just led a revolution. The first successful democratic revolution in the history of this world. Forget technology for the time being: you have a crystal ball! It is your duty to bring him dismal tidings—all the myriad ways in which revolutions can come to grief. Your first job must be to produce a comprehensive report on all the failed democratic revolutions of time line two, with specific analyses of how and why they failed to achieve their objectives.
“Show him that, and then—if you can—show him a revolution that succeeded. Show him he can learn from it and use it as an object of emulation—and he’ll listen to you. In fact, if you can do that, he’ll give you everything you ask for. Which is how you go about setting up your, uh, para-time industrial development program. But before all else, you need to demonstrate your usefulness. And the easiest way to do that is to show him all the ways to fail that he has not imagined, so that he can avoid them.”
Brilliana nodded, then grinned at Miriam. “It’s the oldest trick in the book, isn’t it? Work out what they’ll get hooked on, then give them the first hit for free…”
NEW YORK, TIME LINE TWO, MARCH 2020
Hulius Hjorth was about to start his very last courier mission—although he didn’t know it yet. There was a standardized protocol for world-walking agents entering a hostile surveillance zone: the goal was to do it quietly and anonymously and stay one jump ahead of the surveillance cameras. He’d been doing it for more than twenty years, from his first teenage outing as a Clan messenger to his current status. These days he was a major in the Commonwealth’s Department of Para-historical Research—and he was good at his job. Unfortunately, the adversaries were getting better, too, and it was harder to stay ahead of the enemy every year.
Hulius entered time line two via a quiet side street in Brooklyn. It was lined with red-brick warehouse conversions playing home to start-up businesses and specialist mail-order supply shops. Few people lived here, and some of the buildings were empty, their windows boarded up as their owners waited out the slack in the business cycle. After 8 p.m., as twilight descended, a certain quiet fell. And it was then that the door of one such boarded-up building opened.
An onlooker would have seen a tall, heavily built man in his late thirties or early forties step out, glance up and down the street, and wheel a bicycle onto the sidewalk. With horn-rimmed spectacles, drainpipe jeans, plaid shirt, and knitted cardigan, he could be mistaken for a hipster. He bore a capacious messenger bag, an obscure name-brand item chosen to harmonize with the rest of his outfit. He checked carefully for cross-traffic, then locked the warehouse door and pedaled up the road, wobbling slightly.