Empire Games Series, Book 1(35)
“Yes, but in the meantime, he’s inflaming passions at the French court, Miriam. A king-in-exile is a romantic cause, and he can promise the more entrepreneurial grand dukes a continental ransom. Especially if he auctions off that pretty young daughter of his to someone with ambitions. Meanwhile, they’re terrified of us. We represent the peasants on the march—every noble’s worst nightmare. Worse: they know we’re not just a mob of pitchfork-wielding yokels. They’ve read Adam’s books. They’ve read mine. They understand that this is an existential conflict between those who adhere to the monarchical system and those who honor the new social contract: equality before the law, liberty within the law, nobody above the law. They won’t give up their privileges without a struggle, and they know it’s a fight they’re losing. Our satellites”—he pointed through the window, indicating the southern horizon—“are signs and portents in the heavens. It tells them who owns the skies. They can’t ignore that. It’s decades beyond anything they can do—” He paused. “How much stolen US technology went into the space program?”
“None. We were very careful about that.”
“What?” The light was just bright enough for her to see his pupils dilate.
“Oh, we bought textbooks. Lots of textbooks. And it soaked up almost a quarter of our Skills Transfer Program for five years.”
The STP recruited unemployed graduate researchers and teachers from time line two—their reach, in combination with ex-Clan world-walkers and the nuclear submarines of the Commonwealth Navy, was global—and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. “We hired rocket scientists by the double-handful, mostly from Russia and Europe. And Rudi made sure Space Force ate their own dog food: we didn’t let them copy anything directly. We’ve got a launcher that looks like an R-7—the missile that evolved into the Russian Soyuz system—and runs on the same fuel, liquid oxygen, and kerosene. But it’s entirely homegrown. We may have lost the first four launch attempts, but compared with the early days of the United States or Soviet space programs, Rudi’s made amazing progress.”
“Well, that’s as may be,” Erasmus grumped, “but I have to use it to enthuse our people without frightening the French into attacking us. And they’re going to panic all over again when we tell them we’re going to put an astronaut up there next month.” They pondered the implications. “Tomorrow evening it’s the Guild of News Editors annual ball, where I shall be expected to speak—and, oh, the invitation should be in your diary as well, because wives are invited—”
“Wait, what about the female editors—”
“Yes, and their wives are invited too.” Miriam gave him a look: Erasmus’s sardonic sense of humor could sometimes get the better of him. “The wording of the invitation assumes the membership are all men,” he explained. “The guild is full of deadwood because we needed somewhere to store it where it couldn’t do any more harm … Hmm. How would you like to borrow my bully pulpit to talk about equality? I’m sure they won’t dare make a fuss. After all, the invitation was addressed to ‘Commissioner Burgeson’: they simply forgot to specify which Commissioner Burgeson they were inviting to speak—”
“Oh you!” Miriam chuckled. “No, dammit. Picking fights with newspaper and wireless editors is—” She glanced sidelong. “You weren’t serious, were you?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Erasmus drained his mug. “Sometimes I don’t know my own mind. We are surrounded by bigwigs and stuffed shirts. I’d be delighted to see you tear into them, but…” He shrugged. “We’d never hear the last of it.”
“Enough of them seem to hate us simply for existing.”
“You’re a constant reproach: a woman and a tireless overachiever. And I”—he spread his right hand above his heart, striking a dramatic pose—“am the henpecked husband! Merely the Commissioner for State Communications.” In charge of what had once been the State Ministry of Propaganda: now with oversight of all broadcasting, film, and print media, not to mention the embryonic network of clunky mainframe computers that were destined to grow into the Commonwealth’s Internet. “Miriam, you terrify them. The Ministry of Intertemporal Technological Intelligence scares everybody. What was that phrase? ‘Creative disruption’? Nobody is sure that your organization won’t make their own pocket empire obsolete tomorrow, but none of them dares move against you while MITI delivers the goods. Just don’t”—he paused to examine his mug—“underestimate the attraction of a little bit of decadence to old revolutionaries who think they’re due their reward.”
“I don’t,” Miriam said tersely. She finished her mug of cocoa. “Now I’m tired. It’s been a long day. Come to bed, Erasmus.”
“All right, but only if you promise to consider a vacation.”
She rose to her feet. “A vacation? We might be able to make some time for it next year—”
“No, Miriam, I mean this year. Next year we might not be here. Or there might be another crisis. One damn crisis after another: pretty soon you look round and realize you have no time left.”
“All right,” she relented. “Let’s look into it tomorrow?”