Iron Sunrise s-2

by Charles Stross

  “Network’s down,” murmured Rachel. “They’ve probably got a list of names, but they don’t know who I am, and I lied about who you are. It’ll last about five milliseconds once they get the ship’s systems working for them, but we’re in the clear for now.”

  “Yeah, but who’s Anita?”

  Rachel paused between steps to catch her breath for a moment. Three flights to go. “Anita’s been dead for thirty years,” she said shortly.

  “Oh — I didn’t know.”

  “Leave it.” Rachel resumed climbing. She could feel it in her calves, and she could hear Wednesday breathing hard. “You get used to letting go and moving on. After a while. Not all of them die.”

  “She was, your daughter?”

  “Ask me some other time.” Two flights to go. Save your breath. She slowed as they came up to the next landing, emergency pressure doors poised like guillotine blades overhead, waiting to cut the spiraling diamond-walled staircase into segments. But there was no checkpoint. They don’t have enough people, she thought hopefully. We might get away with this.

  “My suite. Can’t go. Back?”

  “No.” One more flight. “Not far now.” They paused at the top of the next flight. Wednesday was panting hard. Rachel leaned against the wall, feeling the hot iron ache in her calves and a burning in her lungs. Even militarized muscles didn’t enjoy climbing fifty vertical meters of stairs without a break. “Okay, this way.”

  Rachel palmed the door open and waved Wednesday inside. The kid glanced at her for a moment, her expression troubled. “Is this—”

  “Talk inside.” She nodded, and Rachel followed her in. “Sit down. Got some stuff to do.”

  “Stuff?”

  Rachel was already leaning over her trunk. “I want — hmm.” She raised the lid and stuck her finger in the authentication slot, then rapidly scrolled through items on the built-in hard screen. She glanced at Wednesday. “Come over here. I need to know what size clothing you take.”

  “Clothing? Earth measurements? Or Sept—”

  “Just stand up. Your name’s Anita and you don’t exist, but you’re down on the passenger list. So we’ll just have to make sure you don’t look like Victoria Strowger when they get the passenger liaison net back up again, all right?”

  “What’s going on?”

  Rachel straightened up as the trunk began to whine, holding a small scanner. “I was hoping you could tell me. That jacket’s programmable, isn’t it? You’ve made them panic, and they’re springing a trap. Can it do any colors other than black? Prematurely, I hope. Quick, they could be calling any minute. Why don’t you tell me how you got in this mess—”

  There was no knock on the door. It swung open, and two figures leapt inside. But then one of them kicked it shut — and by the time Rachel finished turning around Martin was leaning against the door, his eyes half-shut, breathing deeply.

  “Martin—” She glanced sideways as she stood up, knees wobbly with relief. “I was beginning to think they’d grabbed you.” They met in the vestibule and she hugged him, then looked past his shoulder at the other arrival. “Aha! Glad you could make it. Martin, which plan were you thinking of using?”

  “Plan B,” said Martin. “We’ve got that spare ID you put on the manifest.”

  “Uh-oh.” Rachel let go of him, turned, and stared at the bathroom door. “We may have a problem.”

  The bathroom door opened. “Is this what you wanted?” Wednesday asked plaintively. Rachel blinked at her. In the space of ten minutes her hair had turned blond and curly, the stark black eyeliner had vanished, and the black leather jacket with the spiky shoulders had been replaced by a pink dress with layered puffball underskirts. “My ass looks huge in this. I feel like a real idiot!” She noticed Steffi. “Oh, hi there. This isn’t about the other night, is it?”

  Steffi sat down hard on the end of the bed. “Just what are you doing here?” she demanded, a hard edge in her voice.

  “Um.” Rachel fixed Martin with a steely gaze. “We seem to have a slight problem. Can’t really have two Anitas running around, can we?”

  “No—” Martin rubbed his forehead tiredly. “Shit! What a mess. One false set of ident tags, and two people to hide. Looks like we’ve got a problem, folks.”

  “Can I just wear a flowerpot on my head and pretend I’m a tree? I know the idea is to look different, but this is just plain embarrassing.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that would fool them for long.” Martin scratched his chin. “Steffi?”

  “Let me think.” She leaned her chin on one fist. “I feel so useless right now. I should really be trying to link up with the bridge crew or D-com—”

  “Your attention, please. This is your acting Captain speaking.” Everyone looked up instinctively at the voice emanating from the emergency comm panel beside the door. “There has been an accident on the bridge. Captain Hussein has been incapacitated. In her absence I, Lieutenant Commander Fromm, am in charge of this vessel. For your safety and comfort you should remain in your rooms until further notice. Passenger liaison facilities will be re-enabled shortly, and if you need anything, your needs will be attended to. In view of the crisis, I have asked for volunteer help. We are lucky to be carrying a group from Tonto, and I have enlisted these people to provide assistance in this critical period. Please comply with any instructions they issue. I will make further announcements when the situation is fully under control.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Wednesday.

  “He’s gone crazy!” Steffi exploded. “The skipper would never do that, she’d—” Her eyes were wide. “It’s a hijacking, isn’t it? But why is Max cooperating?”

  “I hate to break it to you,” Martin said gently, “but that wasn’t Lieutenant Commander Fromm you were listening to. It was his voicebox, but not him talking.”

  “What do you mean?” Steffi stared at him, trying to figure out how much he might know.

  “The ReMastered have made something of a specialty out of brain mapping and digitization,” said Rachel, her tone dispassionate. “They can save minds to off-line storage and reincarnate them later — at great expense — by building a new body. But mostly they use the technique to turn living bodies into puppets. Zombies, zimboes with the illusion of self-awareness, whatever.” She clenched her hands together. “That’s how they take planets. They acquire some key government officers, destabilize the place by exploiting local political tensions, declare a state of emergency — using their puppets — and move in.”

  Steffi’s face was white. Shit! I have to warn Sven! We’ve got to get out of here! “Max went to the flight deck to find out what was going on! I let him—”

  “Don’t blame yourself. They’ve got the bridge, drive engineering control, damage control, sentries on the main stairs, and passengers under lock and key in their rooms. This was a well-planned operation.” Rachel glanced at Wednesday. “Bet you they’re turning over your suite right now. And yours,” she added, looking back at Steffi. “They made a big mistake, missing you.”

  “But I, I—” Steffi stopped. She looked horrified.

  “It’ll take them time to check on us in here,” Martin said slowly, thinking aloud. “When they do, we want you well hidden. You’re probably the senior line officer on the ship. We’ll need you around for your pass codes and retinal print if we’re to stand a chance of taking back control.” He glanced at the cupboard. “Once we arrive where they’re diverting us to. If we get there without them tagging us in a search. Ever heard of a priest’s hole?”

  “A what?” Steffi looked dazed. “What are you talking about? I’m just a trainee flight officer! I don’t have clearance—”

  Martin walked over to the trunk containing the military fabricator. “You’ll be the ranking line officer on the ship once this is over,” he told her. “Rache, can you clear everything out of the walk-in? I’m going to need some basic tools, some supports, and a load of paneling to fit. Plus any special toys you can have the fab turn out in less than
half an hour that won’t show up as weapons on a teraherz scan. Bet you they’re working on a ubiquitous surveillance mesh already. Need clothing for you, me, and the kid; it’s in the deception and evasion library. Steffi, have you got a rebreather mask? We’ll need a couple of buckets, some cushions, something to cover one of the buckets with—”

  “Rebreather mask?”

  “We’ve got maybe an hour,” Martin said impatiently. He pointed at Wednesday. “You’re going to be Anita. You—” he pointed at Steffi — “are going to be Anne — Anne Frank. Rachel, run the kid through the Anita background while I get our stowaway stowed. Steffi? You and I are going to build a false back to the wardrobe, and I’m going to wall you in until we get wherever we’re going. The name of this phase of the game is hide-and-seek, and the goal is to stay out of custody for now. Once we know which way the wind’s blowing we’ll see about taking back the ship.”

  “If you can hear me, blink twice.”

  Blink blink.

  “That’s good. You’re Frank, aren’t you? Blink once for yes.”

  Blink.

  “All right. Now listen carefully. You are in big trouble. You have been kidnapped. The people who are holding you have no intention of releasing you. I’m one of them, but I’m different. In a moment, I’m going to give you back control of your vocal cords so you can talk. They’re only going to leave me alone with you for a couple of minutes, and we may not be able to talk again, so it’s important that you don’t scream or give me any trouble. Otherwise, we’re both as good as dead. If you understand, blink once.”

  Blink.

  “Okay … say hello?”

  “He — hell — ack.”

  “Take your time, your throat’s probably a bit sore. Here, try to swallow some of this … better?”

  “Who’urr ooh?”

  “I’m one of your kidnappers. But I’m not entirely happy about it. You’re here because you’re important to someone we’re interested in. A girl called Wednesday. You know her?” Pause. “Come on, I’m not the one who wants to get at the contents of her head.” Pause. “All right. Let me explain.

  “Wednesday knows … something. I’m not sure what. She’s somewhere aboard this ship, don’t know where, and the other — kidnappers — are trying to find her before we arrive where we’re going. When we get there, they’re going to use you as a hostage to try to make her tell us everything she knows. Trouble is, once she gives them the — the information, her usefulness will be at an end. Yours, too. You’re both witnesses.

  “Now, two or three things could happen. They might just shoot you, but I don’t rate that as very likely. More probably, you’ll end up in a reprocessing camp. Or they’ll just pith you and turn you into a meat puppet. None of these options are very good for you, are they?”

  “No fucking way.” Pause. “What do you want?”

  “I happen not to agree with the others. But if they find out what I really think, they’ll kill me — I’m a traitor. So I need to find a way out that, uh, doesn’t give them what they want. So they don’t get the, the immigration records. Or the go codes. Or the weapon test reports. In fact, I want them to go out the airlock. And I want to vanish, see? I don’t want them to find me, ever again. And I figured you could help me do that. They don’t know I’m here, talking to you. Between us we can fool them. They’ve hijacked this ship, but they haven’t done the job properly. If you help me, we can regain control and turn everything over to the surviving ship’s officers, and I can disappear and you’ll be free.”

  “What about Wednesday?”

  “Her, too.”

  Pause. “So what do you want me to do?”

  “For starters, you can look after this diamond for me.”

  The clown died with a grin on his face and a warm gun in his hand.

  Franz had tracked him down to H deck, where the comms sergeant had said he was working on a “birthday party.” Gun in pocket, Franz walked down the stairwell to give himself time to think about how to do the job. It wasn’t as if hits were his specialty; on the contrary, you only did wetwork in Septagon if your cover evaporated and you needed to clear out fast. Sparrowfart surveillance was deliberately absent there, but as soon as the body count began rising it would come down like a suffocating cloud. Franz shuddered slightly, thinking about the risks Hoechst’s team had run, and checked the schematics in his inner eye one more time. Radial four, orange ring, second-class dining area — there were four entrances, two accessible from passenger country. Not good, he decided. Even with the ship under the thumb of the ReMastered, a chase and shoot-out could result in a real mess. It wasn’t a good idea to underestimate the clown. He was a slippery customer.

  At D deck Franz hit the checkpoint. Strasser stared at him coldly as he came down the stairs. “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “Check with control,” Franz grunted. “Are you free yet?”

  “What for?”

  “Got a job. Loose end to take care of. I need to cover three exits—”

  “Wait.” Strasser raised his bulky phone. “Maria? Yeah, it’s me. Look, I’ve got U. Bergman here. He says he’s running an errand and he needs backup. Am I — oh. Yes, all right, I’ll do that.” He pocketed the phone and frowned. “What do you want me to do?”

  Franz told him.

  “Okay. I think that’ll work.” Strasser looked thoughtful. “We’re spread thin. Can we get this out of the way fast?”

  ’Yes, but I’ll need two more pairs of hands. Who do you suggest?”

  “We can collect Colette and Byrne on the way down. I’ll send them round the back while I cover the red ring entrance. I’ll message you when we’re in position. Sure you want to do it this way?”

  Franz took a deep breath. “I don’t want to alarm him. If we scare him, he’ll lash out, and there’s no way of knowing what he’s carrying. Remember, this guy has carried out more hits than we’ve had hot meals.”

  “I doubt it. I’ll make sure we’re in position in not less than six minutes and not more than fifteen. If he leaves, you want us to abort to Plan B and take him in his berth. That right?”

  “Right.” Franz headed for the stairwell. “Get Colette and Byrne in the loop, and I’ll brief them on the way there.”

  Eight minutes later Franz was walking through the orange ring corridor, past smoothly curving walls and doors opening onto recreational facilities, public bathrooms, corridors leading to shared dormitories. Second class was sparsely furnished, thin carpet barely damping out the noise of footsteps, none of the hand-carved paneling and sculpture that featured in first and Sybarite.

  “Coming up on the entrance now,” Franz murmured. “I’ll blip when I’m ready.” He rang off and held his phone loosely in his left hand. There was a racket coming from up ahead, round the curve, high-pitched voices shouting. What’s going on, some kind of riot? he wondered as he headed for the door.

  Turning the corner he witnessed a scene he’d never imagined. It was a riot, but none of the rioters were much taller than waist height, and they all seemed to be enjoying themselves hugely: either that or they were souls in torment, judging by the shrieking and squalling. It vaguely resembled a creche from back home, but no conditioner would have tolerated this sort of indiscipline for an instant. About thirty small children were racing around the room, some of them naked, others wearing elaborate costumes. The lights were flashing through different color combinations, and the walls were flicking up one fantasy scene after another — flaming grottoes, desert sands, rain forests. A gaggle of silvery balloons buzzed overhead, ducking almost within fingertip reach, then dodging aside as fast as overloaded motors could shift them. The music was deafening, some kind of rhythmic pounding bass line with voices singing a nonsense refrain.

  Franz ducked down and caught the nearest rioter by the hand. “What’s going on?” he demanded. The little girl stared at him wide-eyed, then pulled her hand away and ran off. “Shit,” he muttered. Then a little savage in a loincloth sported hi
m and ambled over, shyly, one hand behind his back. “Hello.”

  “Hello!” Whack. “Heeheehee—”

  Franz managed to restrain himself from shooting the kid — it might alert the target. “Fuck!” His head hurt. What had the boy used? A club? He shook his head again.

  “Hello. Who are you?”

  “I’m—” He paused. The girl leaning over him looked taller — no, that wasn’t it. She looked older, in some indefinable way. She was no bigger than the other children, but there was something assured and poised about her despite the seven-year-old body, all elbows and knees. “I’m Franz. Who are you?”

  “I’m Jennifer,” the girl said casually. “This is Bamabas’s birthday party, you know. You shouldn’t just come barging in here. People will talk. They’ll get the wrong idea.”

  “Well.” Franz thought for a moment. “I came here to talk, so that’s not a problem. Is Sven the clown about?”

  “Yes.” She smirked at him unhelpfully.

  “Are you going to tell me where he is?”

  “No.” He stood up, ready to loom over her, but she didn’t show any sign of intimidation. “I really don’t think you’ve got his best interests in mind.”

  Best interests in mind? What the hell kind of infant is this? “Isn’t he going to be a better judge of that than you?”

  To his surprise, she acted as if she was seriously considering the idea. “Possibly,” she admitted. “If you stay right there, I’ll ask him.” Pause. “Hey, Sven! What you say?”

  “I say,” said a voice right behind Franz’s ear, “he’s right. Don’t move, what-what?” Franz froze, feeling a hard prod in the small of his back. “That’s right. Sound screen on. Jen, if you’d be so good as to keep the party running? I’m going to take a little walk with my friend here. Friend, when I stop talking you’re going to turn around slowly and start walking. Or I’ll have to shoot your balls off. I’m told it hurts.”

  Franz turned round slowly. The clown barely came up to his chin. His face was a bizarre plastic mask: gigantic grinning lips, bulbous nose, green spikes of hair. He wore a pink tutu, elaborate mountaineering boots, and held something resembling a makeup compact in his right hand as if it was a gun.