The Revolution Trade by Charles Stross

Author:Charles Stross [Stross, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, SciFi, Fantasy, Alternate History
ISBN: 9781447237648
Goodreads: 17883452
Publisher: Tor
Published: 2013-06-06T00:00:00+00:00

The clinic room could have been a bedroom in a chain hotel, if not for the row of sockets on the wall behind the bed—piping in oxygen, vacuum, and other, less common utilities—and for the cardiac monitor on a stand beside it, spreading leads like creepers to each of the occupant’s withered branchlike limbs. Outside the sealed window unit, the late afternoon sunshine parched the manicured strip of grass that bordered this side of the clinic; beyond it, a thin rind of trees dappled the discreet brick wall with green shadows.

The man in the bed dozed lightly. He’d been awake earlier in the day, shaking in frustration as the speech therapist tried to coax words out of his larynx, and the effort—followed by an hour with the physiotherapist, working on the muscles in his damaged left arm, and then a light lunch served by a care assistant who carefully spooned each mouthful into his mouth—had tired him out. He’d been in his late sixties even before the stroke, his stamina reduced and his aches more noticeable with every morning. Since the stroke, things had only gotten worse. Afternoon naps, which he’d once disdained as suitable only for kindergartners, had become a regular daily fixture for him.

Something—a small movement, or an out-of-place noise—brought him to consciousness. Perhaps the shadow of a bird fluttering before the window glass disturbed him, or footsteps in the corridor outside: In any case, his eyelids flickered open, staring at the ceiling overhead. “Urrr.” He closed his mouth, which had fallen open as he slept, and reached for the bed’s motor controller with his left hand. His eyes twitched from side to side, scanning the angles and planes of the space surrounding him, looking for intrusions. His thumb twitched, pushing the headboard motor control, and the bed began to whine, raising him towards a sitting position.

“Good afternoon, old man.” The visitor closed the clinic room door carefully, then approached the bed, standing where its occupant could see him.

“Urr… doc.” Surprise and doubt sparked in the old man’s eyes. “Doc-tor!”

“I wanted to take a last look at you. You know, before the end.”

“You. End?” The visitor had to lean close to make out the words, for Angbard’s speech was garbled, the muscles of his lips and tongue cut loose by the death of nerves in his brain. “Wher’ guards?”

“They were called away.” The visitor seemed amused. “Something to do with an emergency, I gather. Do you remember Plan Blue?”

“Wha—”

The visitor watched as Angbard fumbled with the bed’s controller. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, after a moment. Reaching out, he pulled the handset away from the duke’s weakened fingers. “Your aunt sends her regards, and to tell you that our long-standing arrangement is canceled,” he said, and stood up. “That may be sufficient for her, but some of us have been waiting in line, and now it’s my turn.”

“Scheisse!”

The duke made a grab for the emergency cord, but it was futile; he was still deathly weak and uncontrolled on his left side, and his right hand clawed inches short of the pull.

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