"Ah, shit." She waved a hand in front of her face. "I'm no good at lying," she said guiltily. "Listen, I need your help. Herman said you'd know what to do.
They're, uh, he said the same people, the ones who killed the cop—he's down as missing in the evacuation, nobody wanted to go back for him—are looking for anyone who might be a witness. They tried—" she took a deep breath. "No, someone tried to mug me a few days ago. Or worse. I got away. They're looking for me because the shipboard security came back onto the station and found me and I'm one of the only loose ends, and now they're not panicking over the evacuation they're trying to tie everything up … " She subsided in confusion.
"Oh." Oh very good, Frank, he told himself sarcastically. How very articulate of you! He shook his head. "Let me get this straight. You're not alone. You ran across something on your station before the evacuation, right before it. Something you think is important. Now someone's trying to kill you, you think, so you hopped aboard this ship. Is that substantially correct?"
She nodded violently. "Yeah."
Okay. Heads she's a kook, tails she's tripped over something very smelly indeed. What should I do? Put that way, it was fairly obvious: run some background checks, try to prove she was a kook before accepting anything at face value. But she didn't look crazy. What she looked like was a tired, shaky young woman who'd been booted out of her life by forces beyond her control. Frank shuffled against the cushions, struggling to sit up. "Do you have any idea who the, uh, killers might be?"
"Well." She looked uncertain. "The ship that took us off was from Dresden.
And the case with the orders was in the Captain's luggage store."
"It was—" Frank stared at her. "How did you get to see it then?"
"I guess you could say I broke in." She screwed her face into something that might have been meant to look like an embarrassed smile.
"You—" Frank stared some more. "I think you'd better tell me all about it,"
he said quietly. "By the way, the public spaces here are all monitored, all the time. But the staterooms are private. If you're going to say anything that might incriminate you, we ought to go somewhere that isn't being recorded.
Do you have a room?"
"Uh, I guess so." She looked at him uncertainly. "My ticket says I do, but I didn't choose it. And I've only just come aboard." She glanced at the doorway self-consciously. "I haven't even bought any stuff yet. I was in a real hurry."
"Okay, we'll go wherever your ticket says. If you don't mind, I'd like to record an interview and check some facts out. Then—" A thought struck him. "Do you have any money?" he asked.
"I don't know." She looked even more uncertain. "My friend wired me some, I think."
"You think?"
"There are too many zeroes." Her eyes were wide.
"Hmm. Well, if that's a problem, I'll see what I can sort out for you. WhiteStar likes to soak you for extras, but at least on board this ship you won't want for complimentary scented Egyptian cotton towels and luxury pedicure kits. And if we're—" He paused. "Where did you friend buy you a ticket to?"
he asked.
"Some place called, uh, Newpeace?"
Shit! An icy calm descended on Frank. "Well, I think we might just have to see about extending it a bit farther. All the way to Earth itself, and maybe back home afterward."
"Why?"
"Newpeace isn't somewhere I'd want to send my worst enemy. It's run by scum who call themselves the ReMastered."
"Oh no!"
Suddenly she was on her feet, looking alarmed. Frank blinked in surprise.
"What have you heard about them?" he demanded.
"Herman said it was probably the ReMastered who killed my—" She choked up, her shoulders shaking.
"Let's go to my room," Frank said quietly, his pulse roaring in his ears. "We can talk about it there."
SYBARITE CLASS
She'd gone to ground in the morning lounge on A deck, finding a niche between a potted coconut palm and a baby grand piano the color of stressed titanium. Eyes swiveling, refugee instincts humming. This wasn't anything like the trash hauler she'd been on, years ago. Everything around her screamed luxury! at high volume. What am I meant to do here? If anyone finds me—She had a ticket. Nobody was going to haul her off to the nearest airlock and make her walk home. Still, just being there felt profoundly wrong, and then there was whatever had happened to her family. Just trying not to think about it was a draining experience.
"Okay, Herman, what have you got me into?" she muttered angrily. A twist of her storage ring got her into the files he'd left her. They were copious, but at least he'd left an introduction.
"As soon as you're on board, search for Frank the Nose and tell him about the items you left aboard Old Newfie. Do so before the ship departs. That will give him time to file a news report, after which your pursuers will be unable to achieve their goal of concealing the existence of the items by killing you. Let me emphasize this: Until you publicize the existence of the sealed orders and the body, your life is in danger. Once you have done so, they can gain nothing by killing you and may only lend credence to your story. And here's a second point. Don't assume that all ReMastered are automatically members of the group hunting you. They're riddled with factions, and whoever is after you may even be using them as a cover.
Don't assume anything.
"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.
Immediately prior to the evacuation, Wednesday returned to the portal station for her own reasons. While there, she discovered a body, believed to be that of Customs Officer Gareth Smaile, who was listed as "missing"
after the evacuation. Officer Smaile is confirmed as having been one of the individuals responsible for maintaining immigration records for persons entering and leaving Moscow system via the portal station, before the holocaust. When Wednesday found him he appeared to have been murdered—a unique event on a small colony that averaged one violent crime every five years.
Abandoned by the body were written instructions to parties unknown requesting that all customs records relating to immigration be wiped prior to evacuation, save for a single copy that was to be returned to the author of the letter.
Taking this report at face value, someone wants to cover up the fact that they quietly entered or departed Moscow system through Portal Station Eleven shortly before the catastrophe. Whoever they were, they had an agent or agents aboard the Dresdener starship Long March when it called at Old Newfie to evacuate the survivors—an agent who was willing to commit murder.
If this is a hoax, it's a violent one. [Newshound: Trace police blotter report CM-6/9/312-04-23-19-24A, double murder.] Two hit men were sent after our informant; she evaded them, unlike the rest of her family, who woke up dead two days ago. Someone maliciously bypassed the gas-conditioning inlet to their home and disabled the alarms. Police crime investigation officer Robin Gough characterized the murder as an "extremely professional" hit, and says she's looking for two men [Newshound: Trace police arrest warrant W/CM-6/9/312-B4] wanted for murder. Here's a hint: Septagon police are efficient enough that if they haven't been found within half an hour, they're not going to be found at all because they're not on the station anymore.