“Once you have broken the story, remain aboard the liner. Enjoy the facilities. You are traveling in Sybarite class with a personal allowance suitable to an heiress of independent means. Consider this to be part payment for your earlier work on my behalf. If you become bored by the formal passenger facilities — the shops, the bars and dining rooms, the dances and other social events — feel free to use the attached technical schemata to discreetly explore the service and maintenance spaces of the liner. If anyone asks you, your cover story is that you are a rich, idle, bored heiress. The Moscow trust has paid up a dividend big enough that your parents have agreed to you undertaking a grand tour as a prelude to your coming out. Here’s a hint: I don’t mind if you’re no good at spending money like water, but please find time to become bored. There will be an exam later.
“The next stop on your itinerary is New Dresden, for a four-and-a-half-day layover. The previous New Dresdener government is believed by many people to be responsible for the destruction of your home world. As you probably realize by now, that is untrue. Your layover coincides with the annual remembrance ceremony at the Muscovite embassy in the capital, Sarajevo. I would appreciate it if you would attend the ceremony. You might want to buy something more formal to wear before doing so.
“I will provide further instructions for you on arrival in New Dresden orbit. To recap: Find Frank the Nose and tell him about your adventure on Old Newfie. Doing so will ensure that you have an uneventful voyage. Feel free to explore the ship. On arrival, attend the remembrance ceremony at the embassy. Bon voyage!”
She shook her head in bafflement, but still began to do as he suggested. The ship hadn’t even departed yet, and residual nerves kept Wednesday looking over her shoulder as the big guy took her straight to an elevator, tastefully hidden behind a trompe l’oeil painting on one wall. What if Leo or whatever he’s called followed me aboard? But something about the hulking journalist made her feel safe: he looked like he could walk through walls, but he was mild enough toward her, clearly aware that his appearance tended to intimidate and trying not to look threatening.
The elevator car was narrow and sparse, polished metal with a button-laden control panel. “It’s a crew car,” he explained, finger-pecking at the panel. “Sven showed me how to use them. They don’t just go up and down, they go — aha!” The car lurched sideways, began to ascend, then twirled back on its route for a while before coming to a halt. The doors opened on a dimly lit corridor that reminded Wednesday of a hotel her parents had once taken her and Jerm to, a couple of years ago. “Here we are.”
Frank’s stateroom reinforced the sense of being in a hotel suite — a rumpled, used one pervaded by a horrible, indefinable stink, as if something had died there. She wrinkled her nose as he closed the door and ambled over to the writing desk, feeling a momentary unease. It passed as he bent down and pulled out a compact multimedia recording deck and positioned it on the table. “Sit down,” he invited. “Make yourself at home.” He smiled alarmingly. “This is a recording cut. We’ll do this once, then I’ll mail it right back to Joe — she’s my researcher and desk ed, back home — immediately. Joe can edit it into shape for a release. The sooner it hits the blog, the better. Comfortable? Okay. Let’s start. Would you tell me your name? It’ll go better if you look straight at the pickup…”
Almost an hour later, Wednesday was growing hoarse. On top of that, she was bone-tired and bored with repeating herself, not to say upset. While Frank was surprisingly gentle and understanding, having to relive the horror of those minutes in the corridor outside her home was disturbing, dredging up tears she’d thought she had under control. She’d managed to snatch a couple of hours of uneasy sleep in her stolen cattle-class seats aboard the ferry, but then she’d had the stress of finding her way to the ship and tracking down Frank. “I need something to drink,” she said. “And—”
“I said I’d buy you breakfast, didn’t I? I’m sorry, I got carried away.” Frank sounded apologetic — and something else. He hauled out a pad and pointed it at her. “Pick anything on the menu — anything you like. Listen, that was a great interview.” He frowned at the door. “Scum, like I said.” Judging from his thunderous expression there ought to be a huge blackened hole in the wall. “Now, I’m going to put a cover on that interview and push it out right away as unsubstantiated rumor. I mean, you really don’t want to leave this sitting around, do you? The sooner we get some physical corroboration, the better, though that might take a while. But the sooner this is out, the sooner the scum who killed your family are going to learn that trying to shut you up was a mistake.” He was positively glowering.
“You said you knew something about the — the ReMastered?” she asked diffidently.
“I, I—” He closed his mouth and shook his head angrily, like a bear pestered by hornets. Then he sighed. “Yes, I know something about the ReMastered,” he admitted. “Much more than I want to. I’m just surprised they’re snooping around Septagon.” He looked thoughtful. “Checking out your story about the station is going to cost real money. Need to charter a ship if I have to go poking around a hot station behind a supernova shock front. But the rest’s easy enough. You want to order up some food and make yourself at home in here?”
“Mmph.” Wednesday finger-shopped listlessly for agedashi tofu and tuna-skin hand rolls and sing chow noodles and a luminous green smart drink that promised to banish fatigue. “Food. I remember that.”
“Chill out.” Frank unpacked a battered-looking pocket keyboard of antique design and began typing like a machine gun. “When you’re ready, give it to me and I’ll put the order on my tab.”
“Do you think I’m in danger?” she asked, her voice catching.
He looked her in the eye, and for the first time she realized that he looked worried. Fear didn’t belong on that face, atop a gorilla of a man. It was just plain wrong. “Listen, the sooner this is on the net, the better for both of us,” he said. “So if you don’t mind—” He went back to hammering the keyboard.
“Sure.” Wednesday sighed. She finished her menu selections and shoved the pad back at his side of the desk. “Journalists. Feh!” She spread her fingers out, admiring the rings on her left hand. Smart rings, untraceable fake rings, rings that claimed she was a rich bitch and came with sealed orders. What’s it really like to be rich? she wondered.
The Times of London — thundering the news since 1785! Now brought to you by Frank the Nose, sponsored by Thum und Taxis Arbeitsgemeinschaft, DisneyMob Amusements, NPO Mikoyan-Gurevitch Spaceyards, Motorola Banking al-Failaka, Glossolalia Translatronics, and The First Universal Church of Kermit.
EXCLUSIVE: Skullduggery in Septagon, Murderers in Moscow
The Times has obtained an exclusive interview with a young survivor of the destroyed Moscow system that suggests agents of an external power have something to hide — after the holocaust.
Wednesday Shadowmist (not her real name), 19, is a citizen of the former planetary republic of Moscow. She and her family survived the induced nova that destroyed their home world because they lived on Portal Station Eleven, Old Newfie, a refueling and transfer station nearly a light year from the star. They were evacuated aboard a starship belonging to a Dresdener merchant agency and resettled in one of the Septagonese orbitals. For their safety, the Times is not disclosing which one.