Charles Stross - Iron Sunrise

“I’m bored,” Wednesday said fractiously. “Can’t I go out?”

“You heard what the officer said, dear,” Rachel responded for about the fourth time, face set in a mask of unduly tried patience. “We’re diverting somewhere for repairs, and they want to keep the common spaces clear for access.” Wednesday scribbled furiously on Martin’s paper notepad: OLD NEWF LIFE/SUPP DOWN HEAVY RAD. Rachel blinked. “Why don’t you just watch another of those antique movies or something?”

WORRIED ABOUT FRANK.

Martin glanced up from his PA. “Nothing to gain by worrying, Anita,” he murmured: “They’ve got everything under control, and there’s nothing we can do to help.”

“Don’t want to watch a movie.”

“Sometimes all you can do is try and wait it out,” Rachel said philosophic “When events are out of your control, trying to force them your way is counterproductive.”

“That sounds like bullshit to me, Mom.” Wednesday’s eyes narrowed.

“Really?” Rachel looked only half-amused. “Let me give you an example then, a story about my, uh, friend the bomb disposal specialist. She was called out of a meeting one day because the local police had been called in to reckon with a troublesome artist…”

Wednesday sighed theatrically, then settled down to listen attentively. She seemed almost amused, as if she thought Rachel was spinning these stories out of whole cloth, making them up on the spur of the moment. If only you knew, thought Martin. Still, she was putting on a good act, especially under the stressful circumstances. He’d known more than a few mature adults who’d have gone to pieces under the pressure of knowing that the ship had been taken by hijackers, and they were the target of the operation. If only …

He shut down his PA’s netlink and scribbled a note on it, leaving it where she’d spot it when Rachel finished, WHY OLD NEWF? “Anyway, here’s the point. If my friend had tried to rush the crazy, she’d have triggered the bomb’s defense perimeter. Instead she just waited for him to open up a loophole. He did it himself, really. That’s what I mean by waiting, not forcing. You keep looking at the door. Was there something you were thinking of doing out there?”

“Oh, I just need to stretch my legs,” she said disingenuously. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been pacing up and down the floor every half hour as it was. “Maybe p look at the bridge, if they’ll let me in, or see things. I think I left some of my stuff somewhere and I ought to get it back.” She caught his eye and he nodded minutely.

LEFT STUFF OLD NEWF? “What did you lose?”

“Oh, it was my shoulder bag, you know the leather one with the badge on top And some paper I was scribbling on. I think it was somewhere near the, um, purser’s office. And there was a book in it.”

“We’ll see about getting it back later,” Rachel said, glancing up from her tablet. “Are you sure you didn’t leave it in the closet?” she asked.

“Quite sure, Mom,” Wednesday said tightly, B-BLOCK TOILET BY POLICE STATION — GOVMNT BACKUP DISK.

Martin managed not to jump out of his skin. “It was quite expensive, as I recall.” He raised an eyebrow.

“One of a kind.” Wednesday blinked furiously. “I want it back before someone else finds it,” she said, forcing a tone of spoiled pique.

Trying to figure it out, whatever it was that Wednesday had stashed near the police station in Old Newfie, was infuriating, but he didn’t dare say so openly while they might be under surveillance. The combination of ultrawideband transceivers, reprogrammed liaison network nodes, and speech recognition software had turned the entire ship into a panopticon prison — one where mentioning the wrong words could get a passenger into a world of pain. Martin’s head hurt just thinking about it, and he had an idea from her tense, clipped answers to any questions he asked her that Rachel felt the same way.

They made it through a sleepless night (Wednesday staked out the smaller room off to one side of the suite for herself) and a deeply boring breakfast served up by the suite’s fab. Everything tasted faintly of plasticizers, and sometime during the night the suite had switched over to its independent air supply and life support — a move that deeply unsettled Martin.

Wednesday was monopolizing the bathroom, trying to coax something more than a thin shower out of the auxiliary water-purification system, when a faint tremor rattled the floor, and the liaison system dinged for attention. Martin looked up instinctively. “Your attention please. We will be arriving at our emergency repair stop in just over one hour’s time. Due to technical circumstances beyond our control, we would appreciate it if all passengers would assemble in the designated evacuation areas prior to docking. This is a precautionary measure, and you will be allowed to return to your cabins after arrival. Please be ready to move in fifteen minutes’ time.”

The bathroom door popped open, emitting a trickle of steam and a bedraggled-looking Wednesday: “What’s that about?” she asked anxiously.

“Probably nothing.” Rachel stared at her and blinked rapidly, a code they were evolving for added emphasis — or negation. “I think they just want us where they can keep an eye on us.”

“Oh, so it’s nearly over,” Wednesday said heavily. “Do you think we should do it?”

“I think we all ought to play our parts, Anita,” Rachel emphasized. “Might be a good idea to get dressed, too. They might want us to go groundside” — blink blink — “ and we ought to be prepared.”

“Oh goody.” Wednesday pulled a face. “It’ll be freezing! I’ll wear my coat and trousers.” And she vanished back into the bathroom.

“Think she’ll be all right?” Martin asked.

Rachel slowly nodded. “She’s bearing up well so far.” She scribbled hastily on her notepad: COMM CENTER? CAUSAL CHANNELS? R-BOMBS?

“Well, we ought to go and see what they want, shouldn’t we?” he asked. “Let me just get my shoes on.”

“Y’know, it’s funny. For years I’ve had this recurring dream, nightmare, what the fuck. I’d be going about my life just like normal, when suddenly they’d be there. In the background, just — running things. Business as usual, same as it ever is. And I’d shit myself and go to the port and buy a ticket to, like, anywhere else. And I’d get on the ship and they’d be there, too, and all the crew would be them. And then I’d get to wherever the ship was going, and it would be the same. And they’d be all around me and they’d, they’d…”

Frank’s subvocalized monologue wavered. It was all he could do just then; after the ReMastered guy with the creepy eyes had told him what he wanted he’d put the block back. His throat and the back of his mouth felt anesthetized, his tongue huge and limp. They’d used much cruder restraints on his arms and legs, and his hands felt cold and hurt from poor circulation. If he hadn’t seen worse, been through worse, back in the camps, he’d have been paralyzed with terror. But as things stood, what he felt most strongly was a terrible resignation and a sense of regret.

Wednesday, I should have got you off the ship as fast as possible. Can you forgive me? He kept circling back to the mistakes he’d made, the assumption of mediocrity on the part of her pursuers. Even after the bomb at the embassy reception, he’d told himself she ought to be safe aboard a liner under a neutral flag. And — he’d wanted to stay with her. He liked her; she was a breath of fresh air blown into a life that had lately been one damn editorial rant after another. When she’d asked him to drop in and jumped his bones as soon as he shut the door he could have said “no” gracefully — if he’d wanted to. Instead, they’d given each other something to think about, and inadvertently signed each others’ death warrants.