“Where are we berthed?” she asked.

“Ah, if I can see your — ah, I see.” The Junior Lieutenant blinked through the manifest. “Ma’am, sir, if you’d like to follow me, you’re to be accommodated on Bravo deck, that’s executive territory. I show a Queen-class suite reserved for each of you. If you’d just care to wait a moment while I find out if they’re ready — this was a very-short-notice booking, I’m terribly sorry — ah, yes. This way. Please?”

“Is Martin Springfield about?” she asked anxiously.

“Springfield? I know of no — oh, him. Yes he is. He’s in a meeting with Flying Officer Fromm. Do you want me to page him for you?”

“No, that’s fine. We’re traveling together. If you could message him my room details when he comes out of his meeting?”

More corridors, more lifts. Exquisite wood paneling, carved on distant worlds and imported at vast expense for the fitting-out of the liner. Gilded statuary in niches, hand-woven rugs on the floors of the first-class quarters. So this is what Martin works on for a living? she wondered. A door gaped wide and two white-uniformed stewards bowed as Rachel tiredly led her luggage inside. “That will be all for now, thanks,” she said, dismissing them. As the door closed, she looked around. “Well, that’s an improvement over the last time…”

Last time Rachel had traveled on a diplomatic passport she’d had a cramped berth in officer territory on a battlecruiser. This time she probably had more space to herself than the Admiral’s suite. She locked the door, bent to unfasten her shoes, and stretched her feet in the thick pile carpet. “I ought to do this more often,” she told the ceiling. Her eyes were threatening to close from exhaustion — she’d been on her feet and alert for danger most of the time since the debacle at the embassy, and it was four in the morning, by Sarajevo local time — but business came first. From her shoulder bag she removed a compact receiver and busied herself quartering the room until she was satisfied that the only wireless traffic she could pick up consisted of legitimate emanations from room service. She sighed and put the machine down, then raised her phone. “Voice mail for Martin, copy to Tranh,” she said. “I’m going to crash out for four hours, then I’m going back on duty. Call me if there are any developments. If not, we’ll meet up to discuss our strategy tomorrow after I have time to talk to the Captain. Martin, feel free to come round whenever you get out of your meeting. Over.”

Finally, she checked the door. It was locked. Good, she thought. She walked over to the bed, set a wake-up alarm on her rings, and collapsed, not bothering to undress first. She was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillows, and the nightmares, when they came, were as bad as she’d feared.

Light’s, sirens, and night. A welter of impressions had closed around Wednesday, threatening to engulf her and cast her adrift on a sea of nightmare fodder. Svengali staggered alongside her, nursing an arm. A paramedic shone a torch in her face. She waved it aside. “He needs help!” she shouted, holding the clown upright. She sat beside him for an eternity while a paramedic strapped up his arm, ran a teraherz scanner across his skull to check for fractures — someone else was working on her bruised forehead, but it was hard to keep track of things. An indeterminate time later she was standing up. “We need to get to the port,” she was explaining in nightmare slow motion to a police officer who didn’t seem to understand: “Our ship leaves in a couple of hours—”

She kept having to repeat herself. Why did she keep having to repeat herself: Nobody was listening. Lights, sirens. She was sitting down now, and the light were flashing past and the sirens were overhead … I’m in a police car, she realized hazily. Sitting between Svengali and Frank. Frank had one arm around he shoulders, sheltering her. But this was wrong. They hadn’t done anything wrong, had they? Were they under arrest? Going to miss the flight—

“Here you go.” The door opened. Frank clambered out, then held Wednesday’s arm, helping her out of the car. “We’re holding the capsule for you — step this way.” And it was true. She felt tears of relief prickling at her eyelids, trying to escape. Leaning on Frank. Svengali behind her, and two more carloads — the police were helping, shunting the off-worlders off-world. The full VIP treatment. Why? she wondered vaguely. Then a moment’s thought brought it home. Anything to look helpful to the diplomats …

Wednesday began to function again sixty kilometers above the equator, as the maglev pod began to power up from subsonic cruise to full orbital ascent acceleration.

“How do you feel?” she asked Frank, her voice sounding distant and flat beneath the ringing in her ears.

“Like shit.” He grimaced. His head was bandaged into something that resembled a translucent blue turtle shell and he looked woozy from the painkillers they’d planted on him. “Told me to go straight to sick-bay.” He looked at her, concerned. “Did you just say something?”

“No,” she said.

“You’ll have to speak up. I’m having difficulty hearing.”

“What happened to Sven?” she asked.

Svengali, who was sitting on Frank’s far side, took it on himself to answer. “Someone tried to kill the Ambassador,” he said slowly. “The Dresdener government shat a brick. I have no idea why they let us go—”

“No. It was you,” Frank said flatly. “Because you’re Muscovite. Aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Wednesday nodded uncertainly. “Whatever that means…”

“So.” Frank nodded tiredly. “They assumed your guests were, too. As the embassy net was down and all they had to go on were passports issued by wherever the guests lived — you’re traveling on Septagon ID, but you’re not a citizen yet right?”

“Oh.” Wednesday shook her head slowly, her neck muscles complaining because of the unaccustomed gee load. “Oh! Who could it be?” she asked hesitantly. “I thought you said whoever was after me—” Her eyes narrowed.

“Who’s after you?” Svengali asked, clearly puzzled.

“I was sure.” Frank looked frustrated. “The, the security alert. They canceled my interviews. In fact, that was the only public appearance the Ambassador put in while we were groundside. And did you notice the way she didn’t go outside? Didn’t even move outside of that podium with the reactive armor? But they left the windows and doors open. And there were cops everywhere on the grounds as soon as that bomb went off. Didn’t she look padded—”

“The Ambassador was miming the speech,” said Wednesday.

“What?” Svengali looked surprised. “What do you mean she was miming?”

“I saw her,” Wednesday said. “I was right in the front row. It was the way she spoke — and she was wearing an earbud. From where I was sitting I could see it. Wearing body armor, too, I guess. You know what? I think they expected something to happen. Only not what did, if you follow me.”

“An assassination attempt. The wrong assassination attempt.” Frank sounded almost dreamy. “On the wrong target. Not you, Wednesday.” He gave her arm a light squeeze. “A different assassin. One who didn’t play ball. Sven, what were you doing down there?”

“I was hired to do a fucking floor show after dinner!” he snapped tensely. “What do you think? This isn’t a vacation for me, laughing boy.”

“That’s okay,” said Frank. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

“Sorry,” Svengali grumbled.

“This would be for the house you’re planning on buying when you retire,” prompted Wednesday, a cold sweat prickling in the small of her back.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Svengali agreed, sounding almost grateful.

“I hope you get there,” she said in a small voice.

“I hope they find the fucking assholes who crashed the party,” Frank said, sounding distantly angry. Wednesday stroked his knuckles, soothing him into silence, then leaned against his shoulder.