Charles Stross - Iron Sunrise

“No?” She stared at him until he looked away.

“At least try to give me some warning next time.”

“I tried to get a message to you,” she replied irritably. “You were in re-entry blackout. It all blew up really fast.” She pulled a face, then sniffed again. “Jesus, I’m crying,” she said, half-disgusted. “This isn’t like me.”

“Everyone does that sooner or later,” he said. She put the glass down, and Martin stroked the side of her arm, trying to soothe her.

“Asshole thought he could use me as a public convenience,” she said quietly. “Someone holds a gun to your head and tells you to fuck, most legal codes call that rape, don’t they? Even if the gun is actually a bomb, and you get to use your hands instead of your mouth or cunt.” She took a deep breath. “But I’m not a victim.” She held out her glass. “Give me a refill. The fucker’s sleeping with the donor organs tonight, while I shall be getting drunk. All right?” She took another deep breath. Everything was getting easier, now Martin was here, and the alcohol was taking effect. “Because when I walked through that door I had a good idea what could happen, and I also knew what was at stake, and I did it of my own free will.” Stray drops of wine fell on the comforter, spreading out in a wide stain. “I’ve been in worse situations. And in the morning I will be sober, and he’ll still be fucking ugly. And dead.” She giggled. “But y’know what I want right now?”

“Tell me?” he asked, uncertainly.

She sat up, throwing the comforter on the floor. “I want another bath,” she announced. “With my favorite bath toy: you. Lots of oil, foam, and stuff. Some good wine this time, not this crap. And I want one of your back rubs. I want to feel your hands all over me. And once I’m relaxed I want to hit up a couple of lines of something to turn me on, and then I want to fuck you until we’re both exhausted. And raw.” She sat up, unsteadily, and leaned on Martin as she tried to get out of bed. “Then tomorrow, or sometime whenever, I’m going to go and piss on the fuckwit’s grave. You coming with me?”

Martin nodded, uncertain. “Promise me you’ll try to get your name off the register?” he asked.

’Til try,” she said, abruptly sober. She shuddered. “Whether I’ll succeed is another matter, though. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it. And most people are too smart to volunteer in the first place.”

She returned to consciousness slowly, half-aware of a pounding headache and a nauseated stomach, in conjunction with sore leg muscles and crumpled bedding. A feeling that she was far too dirty to have just had two baths preoccupied her for a moment until another thought intruded — where was Martin?

“Ow,” she moaned, opening her eyes. Martin was sitting up on the other side of the bed, watching her with a quizzical expression. He seemed to be listening to something.

“It’s George Cho,” he said, sounding puzzled. “I thought you had your phone blocked?”

“George?” She struggled to sit up. “What time is it?” An icon blinked into view, hovering in front of the wardrobe. “Oh shit.” Three in the morning. What does George want with me at three o’clock? she wondered. “Nothing good … pass the call?”

“Rachel? No video?”

“We’re in bed, George,” she said indistinctly. “It’s the middle of the night. What the hell did you think?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” A picture blinked into view on the flat surface of the wardrobe. George was one of the few mainstream career diplomats senior enough to know what her real job description was. Normally dapper, and cultivating a bizarre facsimile of old age that some of the more primitive polities seemed to mistake for distinguished, George currently looked worried and unkempt. “It’s a code red,” he said apologetically.

Rachel sat up as fast as she could. “Hold on a minute,” she said. “Where’d you put the hangover juice, Martin?”

“Bathroom, left cupboard, top shelf,” he said.

“Give me a minute,” she told George. “Okay?”

“Er, yes indeed.” He nodded, looking worriedly at the pickup.

It took her one minute precisely to grab a bathrobe, a glass of water, and the bottle of wakeup juice. “This had better be good,” she warned George. “What’s the hurry?”

“Can you be ready to move in half an hour?” asked Cho, looking nervous. “It’s a full dress team op. I’ve been trying to get through to you for hours. You weren’t at the office this afternoon — what happened?”

Rachel glared at the camera: “You were too busy to notice some asshole trying to blow up the whole of Geneva?”

“You were involved in that?” George looked astonished. “I assure you, I didn’t know — but this is far more important.”

“Don’t.” She yawned. “Just spill it.”

“I’ll be giving everybody the full briefing en route—”

“Everybody? How many people are you bringing in? What do you mean by en route — and how long is this going to take?”

George shrugged uncomfortably. “I can’t tell you that. Just plan for at least a month.”

“A month. Shit.” Rachel frowned at Martin’s expression of dismay. “This would be out-of-system, then?”

“Er, I can’t confirm or deny, but that’s a good guess.”

“Open-ended.”

“Yes.”

“Diplomatic. Black-bag. Or you wouldn’t want me along.”

“I-can-neither-confirm-nor-deny-that. At this time. Obviously.”

“You bastard!” she breathed. “No, not you, George.” She shook her head. “You realize I’m due about six years’ sabbatical, coming up in three months? Do you also realize I got married a couple of months ago and we’re planning on starting a family? What about my partner?”

George took a deep breath. He looked unhappy. “What do you want?”

“I want a—”

Rachel stopped dead for a moment. Code red, she thought, an icy sense of dread insinuating itself into her tired head. That’s really serious, isn’t it? Code red was reserved for war alerts — not necessarily ones that would bring the Security Council into play, but the code didn’t get used if shots weren’t about to be fired. Which meant …

“—I want a double berth,” she snapped. “I come back from a year-long clusterfuck in the New Republic, get hauled over the coals by some harpy from head office because of the hospitality budget, have to deal with the mess when some lunatic is visited by the Plutonium Fairy and tries to landscape downtown Geneva by way of an art happening because he can’t get a handjob, and now you want to drag me away from home and hearth on a wild goose chase into the back of nowhere: I figure a double berth is the least you can do for me.”

“Oh.” George held up his right hand. “Excuse me, just a moment.” His eyes flickered with laser speckle as some urgent news beamed straight onto his retinas. “You haven’t registered a change of status. I didn’t realize—”

“Damn right you didn’t realize. No long solo postings anymore, George, not for the foreseeable and not without planning.”

“Well.” He looked thoughtful. “We need you right now. But…” He rubbed his chin. “Look, I’ll try to get your husband or wife a diplomatic passport and a ticket out to, er, the embassy destination on the next available transport. But we need you, now, no messing.”

Rachel shook her head. “Not good enough. Martin comes along, or I don’t go.”

Across the bedroom, Martin crossed his arms, shrugged, miming incomprehension. Rachel pretended not to see.

“If that’s your final word,” George said slowly. He thought for a minute. “I think I can manage that, but only if your husband consents to sign on as a staff intern. There’s a fast courier ship waiting in orbit; this isn’t a joyride. Are you willing to do that?”