It was a quiet day, but there was still some traffic and a few people about at ground level even that early in the morning — a couple out for an early-morning run together, three kids on walksters, an old woman with a huge backpack, worn boots, and the wiry look of a hiker poring over an archaic moving map display. A convoy of local delivery vans hummed past on the road deck, nestling behind their long-haul tractor like a queue of ducklings. A seagull, surprisingly far inland, circled overhead, raucously claiming its territory.

“When’s the next train to Potrobar?” he asked aloud.

“You have twenty-nine minutes. Options: Make a reservation. Display route to station. Rescan—”

“Reservation and route, please.” The ubiquitous geocomputing network there was crude compared to the varied services on Earth, but it did the job, and did it without inserting animated advertorials, which was a blessing. A light path flickered into view in front of him, strobing toward one of the arcology entrances. Frank followed it across the ornamental cobblestones, past a gaggle of flocking unicyclists and a fountain containing a diuretic-afflicted Eros.

The train station was on level six, a glazed atrium with sliding doors along one side to give access to the passenger compartments. Frank was slouched in a seat, pecking at his keyboard in a desultory manner (trying to capture the atmosphere of a chrome-and-concrete station was like trying to turn a burned lump of charcoal back into a tree, he thought dispiritedly) when his phone bleeped for attention. “Yeah?” he asked, keeping to voice-only — too easy for someone to snatch his window/camera in this crowded place.

“Frank? It’s me. I’m here. Where are you?”

“You’re—” His eyes crossed with the unexpected mental effort of trying to figure it out, then he hit on the caller’s geocache location. “Eh. What do you want, Wednesday?”

“I’ve, uh, I’ve only just got off the ship, but I was wondering, are you busy this evening?” It came out in a rush. “See, there’s this wine-and-cheese reception thingy, and I’ve been invited to it, says I can bring a guest, and I haven’t done one of these things before, but I have been strongly advised to go—”

Frank tried not to sigh. “I’ve just had an interview fall through. If I can’t refill the slot, I guess I might be free, but probably not. Just what kind of do is it?”

“It’s some kind of fifth-anniversary dead light get-together, a reunion for any Moscow citizens who’re on Dresden. At the embassy, you know? My, uh, friends said you might be interested.”

Frank sat bolt upright, barely noticing the other commuters on the platform, as they began to move toward the doors. “Wait, that’s excellent!” he said excitedly. “I was wanting to get some local color. Maybe get some interview slots with ordinary people. When is it, you said—” The doors were opening as passengers disembarked: others moved to take their place.

“The Muscovite high consulate in Sarajevo. Tonight at—”

Frank started. The platform was emptying fast, and the train was waiting. “Whoa! Mail me? Got to catch a train. Bye.” He hung up fast and trotted over to the doors, stepping aboard just as the warning beeper went off.

“Potrobar?” he muttered to himself, glancing around for an empty seat. “Potrobar? What the fuck am I going there for?” He sighed, and forced himself to sit down as the PA system gave a musical chime and the train lifted from the track bed and began to slide toward the tube entrance. “When’s the next train from Potrobar to Sarajevo?” he asked plaintively.

Ring ring. “Hey! what took you so long? I’ve been waiting for hours! I’m going to be late—”

“You are not late. There will be another capsule in less than half an hour, Wednesday. Did you receive my message about the reception?”

“Yes.” Wednesday sighed theatrically. “I’m on my way there. Will you tell me what this is all about?”

There was a momentary pause. “In due course.”

Wednesday shook her head. “In other words, no.” She bent down and buckled up her boots. They looked really fine with the white lacy shalwar trousers she’d bought for dinner and never worn. “So what’s the point of me going there?”

“There is going to be trouble,” said Herman, his voice a distant monotone. The conspirators who are currently assassinating Muscovite diplomats—”

“What?”

“—Please do not interrupt. Did you think you were the only target?”

“But, but—”

“The chancelleries of a hundred worlds will be shaken by the exposure of this conspiracy, Wednesday. If the primary annealing state vector collapses to — excuse me. If the outcome I am betting against myself on comes to pass. I apologize, human languages are poor vehicles for describing temporal paradoxes.”

“You’re going to have to try harder if you want to impress. I’m just an airhead party animal, me.”

“Just so.” Pause. “Attend. Three ambassadors have been murdered. Their deaths coincide with the arrival of this ship in orbit around whichever planet they were on at the time. On this planet, there is an ambassador, and another senior government official. The reasons I brought you here are threefold. Firstly, I am interested in knowing who is killing these diplomats, and why, because I believe it will answer a very important question — who destroyed Moscow.” There was another brief pause. “Backward chaining from the resolution of that situation, I must have sent a message to my earlier state vector — acting in my capacity as an ex-officio oracle and deity within the light cone — to pick you up at an early age. Your involvement was implicit in the development of this situation, although I don’t yet fully understand why, and I believe the reason the faction of the assassins tried to kill you is connected. The information you stumbled across on Old Newfie was more important than I realized at the time. Unfortunately, unless I can arrange transport there for you, it may not be easy to retrieve it.”

“You want to take me back home?” It came out as a squeak. Wednesday stood up hastily: “You didn’t say anything about that! Isn’t it dangerous? How will we get there—”

“That was the second reason,” Herman continued implacably. “My third reason is this: I am a distributed intelligence service, linked by causal channels. I am highly dependent on state coherency that can only be maintained within the light cone — whenever the ship that is the focus of my attention makes an FTL transit, I lose contact. You are my reset switch. You are also my blind spot coverage. If I am inaccessible when critical events occur, you are sufficiently intelligent and resourceful that, if adequately informed, you can act as my proxy aboard ship. Now. Are you ready?”

“Ready for—” Wednesday took a deep breath. “What am I meant to be ready for?” she asked, her voice puzzled and slightly worried. “Is it going to be dangerous?” She pulled on her jacket (which she had dilated to an ankle-skimming coat, showy but thin and useless against the elements).

“Yes.”

“Oh, how nice.” Wednesday pulled a face. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes. You should be aware of several things. Firstly, there is another human agent of mine involved in this situation. His name is Martin Springfield. You can trust him implicitly if you meet him. He is acting as my unofficial liaison with another diplomatic element that is investigating the situation — more or less on the same side. Secondly, I owe you an apology.”

“An—” Wednesday stopped dead. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked suspiciously.

“I failed to prevent the destruction of your home world. I am worried, Wednesday. Preventing incidents like that is the purpose of my — this component’s — existence. A failure to do so suggests a failure of my warning mechanisms. A failure of intelligence on my part suggests that the entities responsible for the destruction of Moscow are far more powerful than previously realized. Or are agencies of such an entity.”