Authors: Charles Stross
Rule 34 (4 page)
It is three on a Thursday afternoon, and you’re out of your weekly probation interview early. You’ve got no job to go to, unless you count the skooshy piecework you’ve been doing on your cousin Tariq’s dating website—using his spare pad and paid for in cash, which you are careful to forget about when discussing income opportunities with Mr. Webber and his colleagues—and you’ve not got the guts to go home to Bibi and the weans in midafternoon and hang around while she cooks dinner in that eloquently expressive silence she’s so good at, which translates as
When are you going to get a real job?
It’s not like you’ve been out of Saughton long enough to get your legs back under the table anyway; and on top of that, you’re not supposed to use a network device without filling out a bunch of forms and letting Mr. Webber’s nice technical-support people bug it (which would tend to rule out your usual forms of employment, at least for the nonce).
When are you going to get a real job?
It’s not like you’ve been out of Saughton long enough to get your legs back under the table anyway; and on top of that, you’re not supposed to use a network device without filling out a bunch of forms and letting Mr. Webber’s nice technical-support people bug it (which would tend to rule out your usual forms of employment, at least for the nonce).
Which can mean only one thing:
It’s pub time.
It’s pub time.
To be a Muslim living in Scotland is to be confronted by an existential paradox, insofar as Scotland has pubs the way Alabama has Baptist churches. Everyone worships at the house of the tall fount, and it’s not
just
about drinking (although a lot of that goes on). Most of the best jobs you’ve ever had came from a late-night encounter at the pub—and paid work, too, for that matter. You’re not a good Muslim—in fact you’re a piss-poor one, as your criminal record can attest—but some residual sense of shame prompts you to try to keep the bad bits of your life well away from the family home.
Compartmentalization
, Mr. Webber would call it. Anyway, you figure that as long as you avoid the fermented fruit of the vine, you’re not
entirely
doing it wrong: The Prophet said nothing against Deuchars IPA, did he?
just
about drinking (although a lot of that goes on). Most of the best jobs you’ve ever had came from a late-night encounter at the pub—and paid work, too, for that matter. You’re not a good Muslim—in fact you’re a piss-poor one, as your criminal record can attest—but some residual sense of shame prompts you to try to keep the bad bits of your life well away from the family home.
Compartmentalization
, Mr. Webber would call it. Anyway, you figure that as long as you avoid the fermented fruit of the vine, you’re not
entirely
doing it wrong: The Prophet said nothing against Deuchars IPA, did he?
The more devout and twitchy-curtained neighbours don’t know anything about your private life, and you want to keep it that way: Our neighbour Anwar, he’s a good family man, they say. And if you want the free baby-sitters and community bennies, you’d better keep it that way. So you are discreet: You avoid the local boozers and are at pains never to go home with beer or worse on your breath. Which is why you go about your business in a snug little pub that sits uphill from the top of Easter Road, close by the Royal Terrace Gardens, for a wee outing afterwards.
Of course, going to the pub is not wholly risk-free. For starters there’s your phone, set to snitch on your location to the Polis—and if they call, you’d better be there to give them a voiceprint. (It’s not like you can leave it at home: You’ve done the custodial part of your sentence, but you’re still under a supervision order, and carrying a phone is part of the terms and conditions, just like wearing a leg tag used to be.)
Your phone copies them on everything you text or read online, and you heard rumours when you were inside—that the Polis spyware could recognize keywords like “hash” or “dosh.” You figure that’s just the kind of stupid shite paranoid jakies make up to explain why they got huckled for shoplifting on their second day out of prison—but you can’t prove it isn’t so, which is why you keep a dirty sock rolled over the phone’s lower half. (And your
real
phone is a pay-as-you-go you got Bibi to buy you “for the job hunting.”)
real
phone is a pay-as-you-go you got Bibi to buy you “for the job hunting.”)
But anyway:
pub time.
pub time.
You’re in the back room, surfing on a pad borrowed from the bar as you work your way down your second pint, when the Gnome materializes at your left elbow with a pot of wheat beer and a gleam in his eye. “Good afternoon to you, Master Hussein! Mind if I join you?” The Gnome is a vernacular chameleon: Going by his current assumed accent—plummy upper-class twit—you figure he’s in an expansive mood.
You nod warily. The Gnome is not your friend—he’s nobody’s friend but his own—but you understand him well enough, and he’s interesting company. You’ve even spent a couple of relaxing afternoons in his bed, although he’s not really your type. “Bent as a seven-bob note,” the Cardinal pronounced him when the subject of trust came up in conversation: “Yes, but
he disnae get caught
,” you pointed out. On paper, he’s a fine, upstanding member of the community; despite looking like the personification of Uncle Fester cosplay fandom, he even managed to get himself elected as town councillor in some deityforsaken hole in Galashiels. (Probably on the Hairy Twat vote. You can persuade the remaining students at Herriot-Watt’s out-of-town campus to vote for
anything
if you get them drunk enough, and there’s precious little else to do out there but drink.) “Have a seat.”
he disnae get caught
,” you pointed out. On paper, he’s a fine, upstanding member of the community; despite looking like the personification of Uncle Fester cosplay fandom, he even managed to get himself elected as town councillor in some deityforsaken hole in Galashiels. (Probably on the Hairy Twat vote. You can persuade the remaining students at Herriot-Watt’s out-of-town campus to vote for
anything
if you get them drunk enough, and there’s precious little else to do out there but drink.) “Have a seat.”
The Gnome sighs appreciatively and smacks his lips, then sits in contemplation of his beer for a minute or two. “What brings you to my office today?”
“The usual.” You frown. The Gnome claims to work for the university computer-science department, on some big make-work scheme called ATHENA, but he seems to spend most of his time in the back rooms of pubs: You figure he’s most likely working on his own side projects. (He maintains that nobody can earn a full-time living in academia anymore, and who’s to say he’s wrong?) “I’ve just had my weekly sermon, and I don’t need a second serving right now.”
The Gnome chuckles, a quiet hiccuping noise like a vomiting cat. “I take your point.” He necks another mouthful of beer. “And is business good?”
“Don’t be daft, Adam.” You switch off the pad. “I’ve only been out two months; my mobie’s running six different kinds of Polis spyware, and I can’t even surf for porn without official permission. What do
you
think business is like?”
you
think business is like?”
The Gnome looks duly thoughtful. “What you need is a line of work that is above reproach,” he declares after a while. “A business that you can conduct from a cosy wee office, that is of such utter respectability that if they’re getting on your tits, you can complain about how shocked, shocked! you are, and they’ll back off.”
“I couldna hack the law courseware you pointed me at,” you remind him. “And besides, I’ve got a record now.”
He’s shaking his head. “No. No-no-no. I was thinking . . .” He cocks his head on one side, as he does when he’s hatching one of his malicious little schemes. “I was thinking, how would you like to be
an honorary consul
?”
an honorary consul
?”
“A
what
?” Visions of a residence on Calton Road and a shiny black BMW hybrid with diplomatic plates clash confusingly with your gut-deep sense that such a scam is beyond even the admittedly impressive grifting capabilities of the Gnome. “Don’t be silly, I was born over here, I don’t even hold dual Pakistani citizenship—”
what
?” Visions of a residence on Calton Road and a shiny black BMW hybrid with diplomatic plates clash confusingly with your gut-deep sense that such a scam is beyond even the admittedly impressive grifting capabilities of the Gnome. “Don’t be silly, I was born over here, I don’t even hold dual Pakistani citizenship—”
“You don’t understand.” He takes your wrist. His fingers are clammy from his beer glass: “Let me explain. You don’t need to be a native. You just need to be a fine upstanding citizen with an office and enough time to attend to the needs of visiting nationals. The high heid yins all have proper embassies staffed by real diplomats, but there are plenty of small players . . . play-states, just like Scotland’s a play-state, hived off the old Union for the extra vote in the council of ministers in Brussels and some plausible deniability in the budget. The deal is, we find some nowhere country that can only afford a proper embassy in London or Brussels, if that. They issue you with a bunch of papers and an official phone, and you’re on call to help out when one of their people gets into a spot of bother over here. If you’re really lucky, they’ll pay you an honorarium and the office rent.” He
winks
; the effect is inexpressibly horrifying.
winks
; the effect is inexpressibly horrifying.
“Get away with you!” You take another mouthful of beer. “You’re winding me up.”
“No, lad, I’m serious.”
“Serious?”
He chugs his pint and smacks his lips. You roll your eyes: You recognize a shakedown when you see one. “Mine’s a Hoegaarden,” he says, utterly unapologetic.
Five minutes later, you get back from the bar and plant his new pint in front of him. “Spill it.”
“What, the beer”—he kens you’re not amused and shrugs, then takes an exploratory sip. “All right, the job. I have a mutual acquaintance who happens to work for a, shall we say,
small player
’s diplomatic service as a freelance contractor. They’re a very new small player, and they’re hiring honorary consuls for the various Euro sub-states—”
small player
’s diplomatic service as a freelance contractor. They’re a very new small player, and they’re hiring honorary consuls for the various Euro sub-states—”
You’ve had enough of this bullshit. “Do I look like I was born yesterday?”
“No.” His brow wrinkles. “Here’s the thing: Issyk-Kulistan is a
very
new state. It used to be part of Kyrgyzstan, but five months ago there was a vote on independence, and they seceded, with official recognition . . .” You stare at him. The Gnome has a warped sense of humour, but he’s not crazy. He’s got dozens of fingers in scores of pies, some of them seasoned with very exotic spices. And right now he’s got that intense brow-wrinkling expression he gets on his gizz when he’s desperately serious, or trying to pinch a jobbie in the lav. He’s droning on: “No budget to speak of, but they’re soliciting recommendations. The angle is, they’re dirt-poor—all they’ve got is a played-out gas field and a bunch of collective farms. Their capital city’s smaller than Stirling; in fact, the whole country’s got the same population as Edinburgh. I
believe
the real story is that Issyk-Kulistan was let go by Kyrgyzstan because unemployment’s around 40 per cent and the big man in Bishkek wanted an excuse to cut their bennies. Think of it as national downsizing, Anwar—Kyrgyzstan’s got a budget deficit, so what are they going to do? Cut overheads! Anyway, the Independent Republic of Issyk-Kulistan can’t afford a real diplomatic corps. Indeed, there’s probably nae cunt from Karakol in the whole of Scotland. Or Latvia, Iceland, or Moldova, for that matter. Which is the reason—”
very
new state. It used to be part of Kyrgyzstan, but five months ago there was a vote on independence, and they seceded, with official recognition . . .” You stare at him. The Gnome has a warped sense of humour, but he’s not crazy. He’s got dozens of fingers in scores of pies, some of them seasoned with very exotic spices. And right now he’s got that intense brow-wrinkling expression he gets on his gizz when he’s desperately serious, or trying to pinch a jobbie in the lav. He’s droning on: “No budget to speak of, but they’re soliciting recommendations. The angle is, they’re dirt-poor—all they’ve got is a played-out gas field and a bunch of collective farms. Their capital city’s smaller than Stirling; in fact, the whole country’s got the same population as Edinburgh. I
believe
the real story is that Issyk-Kulistan was let go by Kyrgyzstan because unemployment’s around 40 per cent and the big man in Bishkek wanted an excuse to cut their bennies. Think of it as national downsizing, Anwar—Kyrgyzstan’s got a budget deficit, so what are they going to do? Cut overheads! Anyway, the Independent Republic of Issyk-Kulistan can’t afford a real diplomatic corps. Indeed, there’s probably nae cunt from Karakol in the whole of Scotland. Or Latvia, Iceland, or Moldova, for that matter. Which is the reason—”
You look the Gnome in the eye and utter three fateful words: “Adam: Why. Me?”
What follows is blether: masterful blether, erudite and learned blether, but blether nonetheless. You swallow his flannelling. It’s all sound and fury, signifying naught; but you’ve got a scooby that there’s more to this than reaches the eye. The Gnome
knows you
, and he wants someone he knows in that shiny black diplomatic limo with the IRIK plates, which means he’s got some kind of caper in mind. And
you
know Adam, and you know this about him: He may be bent as a seven-euro note, but
he disnae get caught
. Ever.
knows you
, and he wants someone he knows in that shiny black diplomatic limo with the IRIK plates, which means he’s got some kind of caper in mind. And
you
know Adam, and you know this about him: He may be bent as a seven-euro note, but
he disnae get caught
. Ever.
Which is why . . .
Three days later, you are certain you’re about to die.
You are twenty-eight years old and a miserable sinner who has been a bad husband to his long-suffering wife and a terrible father to his two children. (To say nothing of having failed to even
think
about making the hajj, liking beer and other alcoholic beverages altogether too much, and indulging in such unspeakable perversions with other men that Imam Hafiz would swallow his beard and die of shame if he heard about them). You
deserve
to die, possibly, probably—for God is Great and he knows
exactly
what you’re thinking—which is probably why he has seen fit to inflict this destiny upon you, seeing you strapped into a business-class seat in an elderly Antonov that rattles and groans as it caroms between clouds like a pinball in the guts of the ultimate high-score game.
think
about making the hajj, liking beer and other alcoholic beverages altogether too much, and indulging in such unspeakable perversions with other men that Imam Hafiz would swallow his beard and die of shame if he heard about them). You
deserve
to die, possibly, probably—for God is Great and he knows
exactly
what you’re thinking—which is probably why he has seen fit to inflict this destiny upon you, seeing you strapped into a business-class seat in an elderly Antonov that rattles and groans as it caroms between clouds like a pinball in the guts of the ultimate high-score game.
The Antonov’s cabin is musty and smells of boiled cabbage despite the best efforts of the wheezing air-conditioning pack. Here, up front in business class, the seats are tidy and come with faded antimacassars bearing Aeroflot’s livery: But behind your uneasy shoulders sways a curtain, and on the other side of the curtain you swear there is an old lady, headscarf knotted tightly under her chin, clutching a cage full of live chickens. The fowl, being beasts of the air, know exactly what’s in store for them—they squawk and cackle like nuns at a wife-swapping party.
The plane drops sickeningly, then stabilizes. There’s a crackle from the intercom, then something terse and glottal in Russian. Your phone translates the word from the cockpit: “impact in ten minutes.” You’re almost certain you can hear the chink of vodka glasses from up front. (The stewardesses haven’t shown themselves in hours; they’re probably crashed out in the galley, anaesthetized on cheap Afghani heroin.) You yank your seat belt tight, adjust the knot of your tie, and begin to pray.
Save me,
you think:
Just let me walk away from this landing, and I’ll give up alcohol for a year! I’ll even give up cock, for, for . . . As long as I can. Please don’t let the pilots be drunk—
Save me,
you think:
Just let me walk away from this landing, and I’ll give up alcohol for a year! I’ll even give up cock, for, for . . . As long as I can. Please don’t let the pilots be drunk—
There is a sudden downward lurch, a jolt that rattles the teeth in your head, a loud
bang
, and a screech of tyres. One of the overhead luggage bins has sprung open, and there is an outbreak of outraged clucking from the economy-class area behind the curtain as a small, terrified
pig
hurtles up the aisle towards the cockpit. Now you see one of the cabin crew, her beret askew as she makes a grab for the unclean animal—she wrinkles her nose, and a moment later a horrible stench informs you that the animal has voided its bowels right in front of the cabin door.
bang
, and a screech of tyres. One of the overhead luggage bins has sprung open, and there is an outbreak of outraged clucking from the economy-class area behind the curtain as a small, terrified
pig
hurtles up the aisle towards the cockpit. Now you see one of the cabin crew, her beret askew as she makes a grab for the unclean animal—she wrinkles her nose, and a moment later a horrible stench informs you that the animal has voided its bowels right in front of the cabin door.
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