Wednesday recoiled. “I, uh…” She swallowed. “Yes.”
“Good.” Something seemed to go out of Hoechst, leaving her empty and tired. “Everybody thinks they’re doing the right thing, kid. All the time. It’s about the only rule that explains how fucked-up this universe is.” A wan smile crept across her face. “Nobody is a villain in their own head, are they? We all know we’re doing the right thing, which is why we’re in this mess. So why don’t you show me where this police post is, and we’ll dig our way out of it together?”
“Uh, I, uh…” She was shaking, Wednesday realized distantly. Shaking with rage. You fuckmonster, you killed my parents! And you want me to cooperate? But it was an impotent fury: confronted with someone like Portia, there wasn’t anything she could see that would make things better, no sign of any way out that didn’t involve doing what the ReMastered wanted. Which was why they were the ReMastered, of course. Not villains in their own heads. “This way.” You have mail blinked in her visual field as she walked across the frost-sparkling metal of the dock toward the empty shadows of the lift shafts. Almost instinctively, she twitched her fingers to accept.
Hello, Wednesday. This is Herman. If you are reading this message, you are back on the Old Newfie communications net — which was not shut down when the station was evacuated. Please reply.
“Are you all right?” asked the one called Franz, reaching for her elbow as she stumbled.
“Just a slip. Icy,” she muttered. She thrust her hands into her pocket to conceal her finger-twitched response.
I’m here. Where are you? Send.
The reply arrived as they waited while Jamil went over one of the lift motors with a circuit tester. It was icy cold in the station: breath clouded the air, sparkling in the twilight overspill from the lights.
I am where I always was. My causal channel is still linked into the station network. The station’s other comms channels are still operational, including the diplomatic channel U. Hoechst intends to use to send the “stop” code to the Muscovite R-bombs. Hoechst acquired one of the “stop” codes from her predecessor, U. Scott. There is another code key in the station administrators safe in the central control office. Svengali and his partner successfully panicked the surviving Muscovite diplomatic corps. My highest-probability scenario is that Hoechst’s objective is to take control of the Muscovite R-bombs under cover of decommissioning them, then to use her ownership of the R-bombs to convince both the Muscovite ambassadors and the Dresdener authorities that the R-bombs are committed to an irrevocable attack. This will lay the foundations for a ReMastered takeover of Dresden. The current junta members will flee, providing promotion avenues for ReMastered proxies and generating public disorder in anticipation of an attack that will never arrive.
The lift motors creaked and hummed, and lights flickered on inside the car. “Seems to be working,” said Jamil, poking at the exposed control panel. “It’s got a separate flywheel power supply that I’m spinning up right now. Everybody in. What floor are we looking for?” he asked Wednesday.
“Fourth,” she mumbled.
Expect no mercy from the ReMastered. They will honor any promises they make to the letter, but semantic ambiguities will render them worthless.
Important note: U. Franz Bergman is a malcontent. Prior to Hoechst’s arrival in Septagon he and his partner were preparing to defect. Hoechst’s hold on him is his partners upload data. An offer of medical reincarnation coupled with the upload record may constitute leverage in his case.
Your old implant conforms to Moscow open systems specifications and is therefore able to receive this message. Unfortunately, owing to a protocol mismatch, I cannot contact other people directly. Please copy and forward this message to: Martin Springfield, Rachel Mansour, Frank Johnson, by way of your Septagon-compliant interface.
The lift squealed to a halt. Wednesday shook herself. “Where now?” Portia demanded.
“Where?” The doors opened onto darkness. The air was freezing cold, musty, and held a residual fetor, the stench of long-dead things that had mummified in place.
“Can I have some light?”
Behind her, a torch flared into brightness, sweeping long shadows into the corners of the curving passage. Wednesday stepped out of the lift car cautiously, her breath steaming in the freezing air. “This way.”
Trying to re-create the path she’d taken all those years ago came hard. She walked slowly, fingers twitching furiously as she copied and forwarded the message from Herman. No telling when it would arrive, but the mesh networks and routing algorithms used by implants in the developed worlds would spool the mail until she got within personal network range of someone who could handshake with them — maybe even one of the ReMastered, if they’d had their systems upgraded for work out in the feral worlds.
Frozen carpet creaked beneath her feet. Her pulse sped, and she glanced behind her, half-expecting to hear the clicking clatter of claws. Portia, Jamil, and Franz — an unlikely triptych of scheming evil — kept her moving on. They were near the toilet. “Here,” she said, her voice small.
“You’re not going to—” Franz stopped.
“What is it?” Portia demanded.
“There’s a body in there. I think.” Wednesday swallowed.
“Jamil. Check it out.” Jamil pushed past, taking his torch. Portia produced a smaller one, not much more than a glow stick really. A minute of banging about, then he called, “She’s right. I see a — hmm. Freeze-dried, I guess.”
“Explain.” Portia thrust her face at Wednesday.
“He, I, I—” Wednesday shuddered convulsively. “Like the paper said. I left it two decks down, three segments over,” she added.
“Jamil, we’re going,” Portia called. “You’d better not be wasting our time,” she told Wednesday grimly.
Wednesday led them back to the lift, which groaned and whined as it lowered them two more floors into the guts of the station. The gravity was higher there, but still not as harsh as she recalled; probably there’d been some momentum transfer between the different counterrotating sections, even superconducting magnetic bearings are unable to prevent atmospheric turbulence from bleeding off energy over time. You have new mail, Wednesday read, as the lift slowed. “Come on,” Jamil said, pushing her forward. “Let’s get this over with.”
Message received. We understand. Get word out via hub comms? Any means necessary. — Martin
The gaping door and the darkness within loomed out of the darkness. The seed of a plan popped into Wednesday’s head, unbidden. “I think I hid it in one of the cupboards. Can you give me a torch?” she asked.
“Here.” Portia passed her the light wand.
“Let’s see if I remember where…” Wednesday ducked into the room, her heart hammering and her hands damp. She’d only get one chance to do this.
Turning, she flashed the torch around overturned desks, open cupboards. There. She bent down and picked up a cartridge, crammed it into one pocket — scooped up a second and a third, then straightened up. “Wrong cupboard,” she called. Where had she left it? She looked around, saw a flash of something the color of dried blood — leather. Ah! She pulled on it, and the bag slid into view. “Got it,” she said, stepping back out into the corridor.
“Give it here.” Portia held out her hand.
“Can’t you wait until we get back to the hub?” Wednesday stared at her, bravado rising. The leather wallet with the diplomatic seal of the Moscow government on it and the bulge where she’d stashed the data cartridge hung from one hand.