Charles Stross - Iron Sunrise

“I’m not sure.” Rachel looked worried. “It’s possible there’s some trouble with the ship’s systems, since the incident that injured the bridge crew—” blink, blink.

Wednesday nodded and pulled a face, sighed theatrically. Am I looking bored yet? She glanced around. There weren’t that many passengers: they were mostly first-class travelers, rich business travelers and minor aristocracy from those worlds that had such. Where’s Frank? she wondered, searching frantically while trying not to be obvious about it. If I got him into this… I…

“Excuse me? Where are we going?” a worried-looking man asked Rachel, plucking at her arm. “You see, nobody’s told us any—”

“Don’t worry.” Rachel managed a forced smile. “We’re just going to the evacuation station. It’s only a precaution, doesn’t mean they’re going to evacuate us.”

“Oh good.” Still looking worried, he scampered ahead, leaving them in an island of quiet.

“Nervous?” Martin asked quietly, making Wednesday jump.

“Nervous?” She glared at him angrily. “If they’ve hurt—” They rounded the curve of the corridor and passed the red-painted crash doors recessed into the wall and blocking access to the airlock tube. The evacuation station was a circular open space about eight meters across, as crowded and nervous as a diplomatic cocktail party where the Ambassador had just announced his resignation. There was standing room only, and a couple of stressed-looking stewards holding their arms across the entrance to the evacuation airlock just in case some of the more skittish passengers decided to rush it for some reason.

“May I have your attention please?” A tall, blond man with hollows under his eyes called from one side of the room. “Would you mind clearing the inner pressure doors, please? That’s right, if you could move into the room, we can get this over with cleanly.”

Oh, shit! Wednesday tensed and ran her right thumb up the frogging she’d had her pressure-smart jacket grow. She’d dialed it into a turquoise tailcoat; it felt stiff and heavy, and simultaneously thin and vulnerable — stretched to cover more than its pressure limit, it’d be useless in an emergency depressurization. The whole idea of walking into an airlock when the bad guys had taken the ship struck her as the height of idiocy, even wearing her lacy white shalwar trousers over pressure leggings and boots -

But people behind her were pushing forward, and the doors back onto the corridor were dropping slowly down, sealing off her route back to the cabins. “What’s—” she began, but Martin gripped her hand.

“Wait,” he said tensely.

“We have an announcement to make,” the blond man called. “If I can have silence, please — that’s better.” He smiled thinly. “We’re about fifteen minutes from docking with the repair station. When we do so, you may be asked to evacuate onto the port ring in good order. We won’t know for sure if that will be necessary, or if you can return to your rooms, until after we dock. If you have to evacuate, try to do so in an orderly way — no pushing, give everybody room to move, keep walking once you hit the dockside until you reach the designated assembly area. Remember, this isn’t a critical pressure evacuation. There’s no risk that you’ll end up breathing vacuum, and you don’t need to run.”

He looked around the room. There was a brief mutter of comment, but no dissent. “And now for another matter,” he announced. “I’ve got a special message for Victoria Strowger, who I believe is in this room somewhere.” Wednesday jerked involuntarily, feeling Martin’s fingers dig into her wrist. “Your friend Frank is down on F deck. He sends his regards. As a rule we’re trying to keep everyone together at their designated evacuation stations, but if you want to see your friend again, you can step forward now, and I’ll take you there.” His smile widened. “This is your only chance, I’m afraid. Once we dock it’ll be too late.”

Wednesday glanced between Rachel and Martin frantically. She wanted to scream: What do I do now? Martin looked puzzled, but dawning horror was writ large on Rachel’s face. The man at the front was still talking, something about evacuation procedures. It was so slickly done, the message, that she half doubted she’d heard it.

“ Go ,” Rachel mouthed at her. A quick scribble on her paper pad: U GOT VALUE — PLAY 4 TIME.

“But—” Wednesday looked back at Martin, who was now clearly worried. They’ve got Frank, she thought frantically. They’ve got Frank! She’d been afraid, walking in there, that it was a trap, but she hadn’t realized just what kind it would be.

Rachel was still scribbling, OLD NF = UR HOME GRND. Realization dawned: Wednesday nodded, feeling sick in the pit of her stomach. “Okay,” she said, and before she could change her mind she began to shove through the crowd of bodies toward the front of the room, where the blackmailer was waiting for her.

“So who the fuck are you?” Wednesday asked belligerently. “And what do you want?”

The woman in charge of the hijackers smiled indulgently. “You can call me Portia, my dear. And all I want is a little talk.”

Wednesday sized her up suspiciously. The blond guy stood behind her blocking the doorway, and there were a couple of guards — one of them manning a comms console, the other watching her from behind the leader — but they’d made no move to search her or apply restraints or anything. This Portia woman wasn’t what she’d expected, either. She wasn’t angry, or evil-tempered, or anything. Nor was she wearing one-piece overalls with built-in pressure seals like the others. In fact, she seemed friendly and slightly indulgent. I’d be indulgent, too, if everything was going my way, Wednesday warned herself. “What do you want?” she demanded. “And where’s Frank?”

“Your friend isn’t here.” Portia sniffed. “He’s in a suite on B deck that hasn’t, ah, been evacuated.” She flashed Wednesday a grin, baring perfect teeth at her. “Would you like to talk to him? Just to prove that he’s all right? My offer was genuine, by the way, when I said you could see him again. In fact, I’ll go further; if you cooperate fully with me, then once our business is over you can have him back, intact.”

“You’re a liar. Why should you?” Wednesday regretted the words almost before they were out of her mouth: Stupid, goading her when she holds all the cards!

But Portia didn’t take it amiss. “Over the years I’ve found that a reputation for keeping my word is a valuable tool — it makes negotiating much easier if everybody knows you’re trustworthy. You, ah, don’t know that yet — but if you want to talk to your friend … ?”

“Ah—” Wednesday felt a sick tension in her gut. “Yeah. I’ll talk to him.” Shit! If he’s all right — A second interior voice kicked in, icily cold — They’ll be watching you both for leverage. Make no mistake, she’s not doing this just for you.

“Get the prisoner on the secure terminal,” Portia told the guard at the desk.

Wednesday moved to sit down in the offered chair. The camera’s-eye view certainly showed her Frank. Her breath caught; they’d put him in a chair and taped his arms down, and he looked ill. His skin was sallow and dry. He looked up at the camera, bleary-eyed, and started. “Wednesday, is that you?” he said, his voice rasping.

“It’s me.” She clasped her hands behind her back to keep from fidgeting. “Are you all right?”

He rolled his head sideways, as if trying to see something behind the camera. After a moment he replied, “No, I’m a bit tied up.” He shook his head. “They got you, too. Was it me?”