Miriam reined in her annoyance; she responded badly to provocative sarcasm: “We need to somehow get the Commonwealth leadership to commit to full-scale industrial development and modernization. Right now, the USA is about sixty years ahead of anyone in this time line. But I think the Commonwealth can close the gap completely in less than forty years—maybe thirty—with our help. And if they can do that before the USA discovers us here, we’ll be infinitely safer. Make no mistake—sooner or later, they will find us. And even though we didn’t kill their president, they’ll expect us to pay the price.”
“Is it even possible for a society to progress that rapidly?” asked Brilliana, who was usually loath to disagree with her leader. She perched on a desk in the corner of the room, keeping one wary eye on the door. (As Miriam’s first-sworn bodyguard, she took Miriam’s security personally.) “It’s 2003. Let’s say the USA have a sixty-year lead now. In thirty years it’ll be 2033. You’re talking about catching up to a ninety-year lead in thirty years, not a sixty-year lead. Are you sure about your projections?”
“Yes. That’s why I said it might take nearer to forty.” Miriam’s shoulders slumped slightly. A forty-year plan: that was a lifetime’s work, a daunting project for anyone. “But it’s not impossible. Look at the Korean Peninsula in time line two. North Korea and South Korea started out level-pegging in 1953. They were both oppressive dictatorships with flattened cities and superpower sponsors, and they were still pretty much even as late as 1973. But today, South Korea’s got a higher GDP than Japan, while in North Korea they’ve gone backward.
“Folks, this is it. This is the time line we have to live in. We don’t get to go home to the Gruinmarkt, in time line one: it glows in the dark. Even if we could, would we want to? I will remind you that the only things that made the Gruinmarkt tolerable were enormous local wealth and access to luxuries imported from the United States. We don’t have the local wealth and we can’t import stuff from the USA anymore—we’re not welcome there, in case you’d forgotten.” Any Clan member trying to make a life in the United States risked ending up in a supermax prison for the rest of their life—or at least until their date with a federal executioner.
“We’re stuck in time line three, stuck in the Commonwealth here, unless you think striking out at random in search of something better is a solution. At least here we’ve got the ear of the First Man,” she said, referring to the founder and head of the Radical Party, who had consolidated power in the wake of the Revolution. “We can work with that. But running away again isn’t an option unless our backs are up against the wall. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to go and live in a cave somewhere, or a drafty castle with no antibiotics and no general anesthesia. I happen to like civilization, and this is the nearest thing we’ve got.”
Miriam looked round at her audience. She’d taken care to ensure that half of them were women, and she could tell at a glance that she had their attention. The state of civilization in the Gruinmarkt had been medieval, except where world-walkers had traded in US goods, such as the imported medicines that meant they didn’t have to endure repeated risky pregnancies and bury half their babies before their fifth birthday.
“My plan, which I intend to sell to the First Man, is to turn this camp into the Commonwealth’s source of miracle technologies and scientific insights. We’re going to engage in knowledge transfer on a historically unprecedented scale, acquiring and disseminating the necessary skills and ideas to enable the Commonwealth to play catch-up with the United States in time line two. Then, once we get ourselves out of this camp and into strategic positions within their economic and industrial planning apparatus, we’ll be able to move mountains. We can turn this time line into somewhere we’re proud to live, a place where we’re safe from the US government. And there’s one more thing: once we have official government backing for the project, we’re going to skew it to suit our own agenda.”
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.