“Later up the what? Hey, I thought you were the Eschaton! What is this?”
“Can a T-helper lymphocyte in a capillary in your little finger claim to be you? Of course I am part of the Eschaton, but I cannot claim to be the Eschaton. The Eschaton acquires most of its power by being able to harness causality violation — time travel — for computational purposes. Working causality-violation devices in the hands of others — whether designed as weapons, or as time machines, or as computers — would threaten the stability of its time line. That is why agencies such as I exist — to monitor requests from the oracle to take action that will defend the Eschaton’s causal integrity. In the case of Moscow, the most reasonable explanation is that the Muscovite government was experimenting with weapons of temporal disruption and blew their own star up by accident. But there was absolutely no rational explanation for why they might want to develop such weapons, left to their own devices. Which is why evidence of ReMastered infiltration would be most interesting. Especially in conjunction with the silence of the oracle.”
Wednesday was silent for a minute. Then: “Are you telling me that some asshole in the military destroyed my world by accident? Or because the ReMastered asked them to?”
“Not exactly.” A few seconds’ silence. Wednesday’s emotions churned, aghast and outraged. “When acquiring a new planet, the ReMastered do not walk in and take everything over at gunpoint. They infiltrate by inducing a crisis and being invited in to calm things down. Their main tool is their expertise in uploading and neural interfaces. While blackmail is often used for indirect leverage, they frequently work by abducting key midlevel officials — pithing them, copying their existing neural architecture, then installing an implant. Sometimes they leave the personality in place, just add an override switch — or they wipe everything and turn the body into a remote-control meat puppet. By using a causal channel to control the body, they can ensure that nobody will be able to tell that it’s being run by a ReMastered agent unless it is subjected to a brain scan or forced to make an FTL transit. The ReMastered are patient; frequently they will arrive in a system, take fifty to a hundred low-to-mid-ranking officials, then wait twenty or thirty years until one or more of their moppets is promoted into a position of influence. It is a very slow and labor-intensive process, but far cheaper and safer than attempting an overt war of interstellar conquest.”
“You mean they do this regularly?”
“Not often. They have fewer than twenty worlds, so far. My models do not predict that they will become a major threat for at least two centuries.”
“Oh.” Wednesday fell silent. “But none of the diplomats are puppets,” she pointed out. “They’d have made FTL transfers to get to their embassies. So there’s no evidence, is there?”
“There is evidence,” Herman pointed out. “The ReMastered focus on you, and the items you found aboard Old Newfie before its evacuation, suggest that it was used as a point of entry for some years, and that the insurgency group operating in Moscow were careless. The ReMastered focus on assassinating Muscovite diplomats is itself suggestive, although I am not yet certain of their motives. The faction responsible appears to want to force the Muscovite diplomatic corps to send the irrevocable go code to the R-bombers, thus precipitating a political crisis on New Dresden with implications elsewhere. But it is difficult to be sure.”
“But you — you” — Wednesday struggled for words — “You’re part of the Eschaton. Can’t you stop them? Don’t you want to stop them?”
“Why do you think I am talking to you?” Her own voice, calm and sympathetic. “I cannot undo the destruction of Moscow because the accident did not trigger the Eschaton’s temporal immune response. Higher agencies are investigating the possibility of a threat to the Eschaton itself. I am trying to prevent the ReMastered from achieving their goal of taking New Dresden, or whatever else they want to achieve. I’m also trying to stop them from acquiring the final technical reports from the weapons project on Moscow. And I’m trying to ensure that the diplomatic corps from Earth is alerted to the threat. This is a low-level response by the standards of the Eschaton. The ReMastered belief system requires the destruction of the Eschaton. They are nowhere near acquiring that capability, and have not yet triggered the Eschaton’s primary defense reflexes, but if they do … you would not wish to live within a thousand light years.”
“Oh.” It came out sounding weak, and Wednesday hated herself for it. “And what about me? What am I going to do afterward? My family…” A huge sense of loss stopped her in her tracks. She glanced at the sleeping figure in the bed and the sense of loss subsided, but only a fraction.
“You are old enough to make up your own mind about your future. And I cannot accept responsibility for events that I was not forewarned about or involved in. But I will ensure that you do not lack money in the short term, while you sort your life out, if you survive the next few days.”
“If?” Wednesday paced over toward the picture wall. “What do you mean, if?”
“The ReMastered group from MOSS is aboard this ship for a reason. Sometime after the next jump I expect them to do something drastic. It might be as crude as an attempt to snatch and puppetize you, but there are too many witnesses aboard this ship to whom you might have spoken. A more sensible approach would be to ensure that this ship never reaches its destination. You should prepare yourself. Learn the crew access spaces and the details I downloaded into your ring. One other thing: three diplomats from Earth’s United Nations Organization have joined the ship. You can trust them implicitly. In particular, you can talk to Martin Springfield, who has worked for me in the past. He may be able to help protect you. And one other point. If you get the chance to reacquire the documentary evidence of ReMastered weapons tests in Moscow system, turn it over to the diplomats. That is the one thing you can do that will cause the most damage to the ReMastered.”
“I’ll bear it in mind.” Her voice wavered. “But you said they’re going to break the door down and kidnap me — what am I supposed to do about that?”
“Simple: don’t be in your cabin when they come for you.” Herman paused. “Too much time. I have downloaded some further design patterns into your rings. Keep your jacket by you at all times.”
“My jacket?”
“Yes. You never know when you’ll need it.” Herman’s tone was light. “Good luck, and goodbye. Oh, and if by some chance the Romanov ends up at New Prague, talk to Rachel before you decide to take a day trip to the surface. Otherwise, it might come as a shock…”
Click. The call ended. Wednesday cursed quietly for a moment, then noticed a change in the room. She glanced up.
“What was that about?” asked Frank, his expression grave. “Was someone picking an argument?”
She stared at him, her heart suddenly pounding and her mouth dry. “My invisible friend—” she began. “When do we jump?”
“Not for at least a day. Why don’t you come here and tell me about it?” He moved to one side of the bed, making a space for her.
“But I—” She stopped, the sense of dread receding somewhat. “A day?” Long habit and ingrained distrust told her that mentioning Herman to anyone would only get her into trouble. Logic, and something else, told her that concealing him from Frank would be a mistake. “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” she said. “And you’ll think I’m crazy!”
“No.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “I don’t think you’re crazy.” His expression was open and surprisingly vulnerable — which only made him harder for her to read. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
She climbed into bed and leaned against him. He put an arm round her shoulders as she took a deep breath. “When I was ten I had an invisible friend,” she admitted. “I only discovered he worked for the Eschaton after home blew up…”
Martin glanced up as Rachel opened the door to the cramped office cube, off to one side of the executive planning suite. His face was lined and weary. “You’re all right?” he aske
d.
“Never been better.” Rachel pulled a face, then yawned. “Damn, need a wake-up dose.” She looked at the table, glanced at the young-looking Lieutenant sitting at the other side of it from Martin. “Introduce me?”
“Yeah. This is Junior Flight Lieutenant Stephanie Grace. Just back from ground leave. While she’s been away I’ve been working with her boss, Flying Officer Max Fromm. Um, Steffi? This is my wife, Rachel Mansour. Rachel is a cultural attache with—”
“Not that introduction.” Rachel grinned humorlessly as she held up a warrant card. Her head, surrounded by the UN three-W logo on a background of stars. “Black Chamber. That’s Colonel Mansour, Combined Defense Corps, on detached duty with the UN Standing Committee on Interstellar Disarmament. Purely for purposes of pulling rank where appropriate, you understand. I’d rather the passengers and crew outside your chain of command didn’t learn of my presence just yet. Do we understand each other?”
The kid — no, she was probably well out of her teens, quite possibly already into her second or third career — looked worried. “May I ask what you think is going on? Because if it’s anything that threatens the ship, the Captain needs to know as a matter of urgency.”
“Hmm.” Rachel paused. “Until six hours ago, I thought we were looking for a criminal — a serial killer — who was traveling aboard your ship and killing a different victim in every port.” She stopped.
The Lieutenant winced, then met her eyes. “I hardly think that would normally warrant a Black Chamber investigation, would it, Colonel?”
“It does if the victims are all ambassadors from a planetary government in exile that has launched R-bombs on another planet,” Rachel said quietly. “That stays under your hat, Lieutenant: our serial killer is trying to precipitate a war using weapons of mass destruction. I’ll brief your Captain myself, but if word of it gets back to me through other channels—”
“Understood.” Steffi looked worried. “Okay, so that’s why your husband” — Her eyes flickered toward Martin — “has been dredging through our transit records for the past six months. But you said there was something else.”
“Uh-huh.” Rachel met her eyes. “It’s a motive thing. I don’t think it’s a lone serial killer; I think we’re up against a professional assassin, or a team of assassins, from an interstellar power. And they’re intent on obscuring their tracks. Now they know we’re onto them, they could do anything. I hope they won’t do anything that threatens the ship, but I can’t be sure.” She shrugged uncomfortably.
Steffi looked alarmed. “Then I must insist you tell the Captain immediately. If there’s any question that the, uh, killer might do something aboard her vessel, she’s responsible for it. Master and commander and all that. And so far” — her gesture took in the mound of open windows and entity/relationship diagrams in the table-sized screen — “we’re not getting very far. We have about two and a half thousand passengers, and seven hundred crew. We generate over three thousand personnel movements every time we berth, and frankly, the two of us are snowed under. If you’ve got something solid to tell the skipper, it’ll make it easier for me to get you more help.”
“Okay, then let’s go see the Captain.” Martin stood up. “Want me to come along?” he asked.
Rachel took a deep breath. “Think you can carry on without us for a while? I don’t expect it’ll take long to fill her in…”
“I’ll keep at it.” Martin shook his head. “I’m still working through the tourist-class passengers. I thought it was going to be simple, then Steffi here asked what if a passenger disembarked and checked out, did the job, then took passage under a different name in a different class? It’s a real mess.”
“Not totally,” Steffi volunteered. “We have some biometrics on file. But we’re not geared up for police-style trawls through our customer base, and pulling everyone’s genome out for inspection would normally take an order from—” She glanced at the ceiling. “So shall we go visit the skipper?”
Captain Nazma Hussein was not having a good day.
First departure had to be delayed six hours because of some stupid mess downside, delaying a couple of passengers who had diplomatic-grade clout-enough to hold the ship, even though each hour’s delay cost thousands. Then there was a problem with mass balance in one of the four ullage tanks that ringed the lower hemisphere of the liner’s hull, a flow instability suggesting that a stabilizer baffle had been damaged during the last docking maneuver. She’d managed to get away from the flight deck, leaving Victor in charge of the straightforward departure, only to find a queue headed by the deputy purser waiting in front of her desk for orders and/or ruffled-feather smoothing. And now this …
“Run that by me again,” she said, doing her best to maintain the illusion of impassive alertness that always came hard after a twelve-hour shift. “Just what do you expect to happen aboard my ship?”
The diplomat looked as tired as she felt. “One or more of your passengers or short-term crew have been bumping off people at each planetside port of call,” she explained again. “Now, I’ve been ordered to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Which is all very well, but I’ve got reason to believe that the killer is acting under orders and may try to cover their tracks by any means at their disposal.”
“Disposal?” Captain Hussein raised one sharply sculpted eyebrow. “Are you talking about a matter of killing witnesses or passengers? Or actions that might jeopardize the operational safety of my ship?”
The woman — Rachel something-or-other — shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said bluntly. “I’m sorry I can’t reassure you, but I wouldn’t put anything past these scum. I was downside yesterday, and we managed to abort their latest hit, but the trap misfired, mostly because they demonstrated a remarkable willingness to kill innocent bystanders. It looks as if they started out trying to keep a low profile, but they’re willing to go to any lengths to achieve their goals, and I can’t guarantee that they won’t do something stupid.”
“Wonderful.” Nazma glanced sideways at her overflowing schedule screen. Numerous blocks winked red, irreconcilable critical path elements, overlapping dependencies that had been thrown out of balance by the late departure. “Do you know who you’re looking for? What would you have me do when you find them?” She looked past the diplomat. The trainee kid was doing her best to melt into the wall, clearly hoping she wouldn’t dump on her for being the bearer of bad tidings. Tough, let her worry for a few minutes. Nazma gave her a grade-three Hard Stare, then looked back at the spook. It hadn’t been so many years that she had forgotten what the kid would be feeling, but it wouldn’t hurt to make her ponder the responsibilities of a mistress and commander for a while. “I really hope you’re not going to suggest anything like a change of destination.”
“Ah, no.” The woman, to her credit, looked abashed. Bet that’s exactly what you were about to suggest, Nazma told herself. “And, um, the safety of your ship is paramount. My main concern is that we identify them so that they can be discreetly arrested when we arrive at the next port of call — or sooner, if there’s any sign that they’re a threat to anyone else.” Nazma relaxed slightly. So, you’re not totally out of touch with reality, huh? Then the diplomat spoiled it by continuing: “The trouble is, you generate so many personnel movements that we’ve got a pool of about 200 suspects, and only ten days to check them. That’s the number who’ve been downside on all of the planets where an incident occurred — if we’re looking for a team, alternating targets, the pool goes up to 460 or so. So I was wondering if we could borrow some more staff — say, from the purser’s office — to help clear them.” She forced a tense smile at Nazma.
Give me patience! Captain Hussein glanced back at her display. The red bars weren’t getting any shorter, and every additional hour added to the critical path added sixteen thousand to her operating overhead. But the alternative … “Lieutenant Grace.” She watched Steffi straighten her back attentively. “Please convey my compliments to Commander Lewis,
and inform her that she’s to provide you with any and all personnel and resources from her division that you deem necessary to requisition for, for Colonel—”
“Mansour,” offered the woman.
“—Colonel Mansour’s search. When you have a final suspect list I want to see it before any action is taken. File daily updates with Safety and Security, cc’d to my desk. I also want to know if you don’t find a murderer aboard my ship, of course.” She nodded at the spook. “Satisfied?”
Rachel looked surprised. “More than,” she admitted. This time her smile was genuine. “Thank you!”
“Don’t.” Nazma waved it away. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t take murderers running around my ship seriously.” She sniffed, nostrils flaring as if at the scent of skullduggery. “Just as long as you keep it low-key and don’t frighten the passengers. Now, I trust you will excuse me, but I have a ship to run.”
He looks like a gorilla, Martin thought apprehensively as he approached the warblogger across the half-empty lounge. The journalist was slouched in a sofa with a smile on his face, one arm around a pale-skinned young woman with a serious blackness habit — black hair, black boots, black leggings, black jacket — and a big baby blue dressing on her left temple. She was leaning against him in a manner that spelled more than casual affection. Isn’t that sweet, Martin thought cynically. The blogger must have been about two meters tall, but was built so broadly he looked squat, and it wasn’t flab. Close-cropped silver-speckled black hair, old-fashioned big horn-rimmed data glasses, and more black leather. The woman was talking to him quietly, occasionally leaning her chin on his shoulder. The gorilla was all ears, grunting agreement from time to time. They were so wrapped up in each other that they didn’t seem to have noticed Martin watching them. Here goes, he thought, and walked over.
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