“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 asked.
“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.”