Which was why, on the evening of the first full day in flight, one hour before the first jump, he was kneeling on the floor of Portia’s Sybarite-class stateroom next to Marx, helping him load ammunition into a brace of handheld recoilless gun launchers while Samow and Mathilde armed their little bags of tricks. We’re really going to do this, he thought disbelievingly, as he stared at a squat cartridge. She’s really going to do it.

The idea was disorienting. Franz had thought, in his more optimistic — unrealistic — moments that maybe he and Erica could manage the trick: that perhaps they could flee the iron determination of the ReMastered race, escape from history, run and hide and find a distant world, live and work and indulge in the strange perversion called love, die forever and molder to humus, never to rise beneath the baleful gaze of the omniscient end child. But escape was a cruel illusion, like freedom, or love. A cruel illusion intended to temper the steel of the ReMastered.

He snapped the round into the box magazine before him, then picked up another and loaded it on top. It was the size of his thumb, nose gleaming with sensors and tail pocked with the tiny vents of solid-fuel rocket motors. One shot, one kill. Every time he pushed another BLAM into the magazine he felt something inside him clench up, thinking of Jamil plunging the propagation bush into the back of Erica’s head, turning her into so much more reliable meat to place on the altar of the unborn god for judgment. Kill them all, god will know his own meeting god is dead: we must become the new gods.

“This one’s full,” he said, and passed it to Marx.

“That’s enough for this set.” Marx carefully set aside one of the handguns and a linked bundle of magazines. “Okay, next one. Hurry up, we’ve only got an hour to get this sorted.”

“I’m hurrying.” Franz’s hands flew. “Nobody’s told me what I’m assigned to do during the action.”

“Maybe that’s because she hasn’t decided if she wants you alive for it.” Franz tried not to react in any way before Marx’s harsh assessment. It was all too possible that it was a test, and any sign of weakness might determine the outcome. “I obey and I labor for the unborn,” he said mildly, working on the ammunition case. “Hmm. The power charge on this one is low. How old is this box?” The big guided antipersonnel rounds needed a trickle charge of power while they were on the shelf — the biggest drawback of smart weapons was the maintenance load.

“It’s in date. Anyway, we’ll be using them soon enough.” I could defect, he told himself. All I’d have to do is tell the Captain what’s happening — Except he didn’t know who else might be involved. All he knew about was Portia’s team, and Mathilde’s group. There might be others. Restart. If I defect — Erica would be dead forever, or doomed to resurrection beneath the hostile scrutiny of an angry god. Even if he could get his hands on the package of souls Portia was carrying for the Propagators, he had no easy way of instantiating Erica’s mind, let alone growing her a new body. That was privileged technology within the Directorate, ruthlessly controlled by the Propagators for their own purposes, and expensive and rare outside it. And if Hoechst is telling the truth — there were worse things to be than a DepSec’s serf. Much worse.

“Ah, Franz.” A warm voice, behind him. He forced himself to focus on what his hands were doing — pick, load, pick, load. She doesn’t mean anything, he thought. “Come with me. I’ve got a little job for you.”

He found himself standing up almost without willing it, like a sleepwalker. “I’m ready.”

“Hah! So I see.” Hoechst beckoned toward one of the side doors opening off her suite. “Over here.”

He followed her over and she opened the door of what he’d taken for a closet. Spot on: it was indeed a closet. With a chair in it, straps dangling from the armrests and front legs.

“What’s this?” he asked, heart thudding.

“Got a little job for you.” Hoechst smiled. “I’ve been studying this love phenomenon, and it has some interesting applications.” Her smile slipped. “It’s a pity we can’t just work our way through the passengers until we have the girl, then puppetize her and force her to comply.” She shook her head. “But whoever’s behind her almost certainly took precautions. So we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

“The old—” Franz stopped. “What do you mean?”

Hoechst pulled out a tablet and tapped it. A video loop started cycling, just a couple of seconds showing its target waving at someone off-screen. “Him.” She pointed at the face. “I’m giving you Marx and Luna. While everyone else is executing Plan Able, you will go to his cabin and bring him here. Undamaged, to the extent possible. I want a bargaining chip.”

“Hmm.” Franz shrugged. “Wouldn’t it be easier simply to force her?”

“This is force, of a kind.” Hoechst grinned at him. “Don’t you recognize it?” The grin vanished. “She has a history of evading capture, Franz. Kerguelen was not entirely negligent: he was up against experience. I’ve been reading U. Scott’s field files, predigested raw transcripts, not the pap he was content with. She won’t dodge me.”

“Ah,” Franz said faintly. “So what do you want me to do with him?”

“Just snatch him and bring him here while I’m dealing with the rest of the ship. If he cooperates, he and the girl can both be allowed to live — that’s the truth, not a convenient fiction. Although they and the rest of the passengers will be sent for ReMastering when we arrive at Newpeace.”

“Got it.” Franz frowned. She’s going to ReMaster everyone on the entire ship? Is she planning on making it disappear? “Do you want anything else?”

“Yes.” Hoechst leaned close, until he could feel her breath on his cheek. “This is job number one for you. I’ve got another lined up after we dock with station eleven. It’s going to be fun!” She patted him on the back. “Cheer up. Only another three weeks to go, and we’ll be home again. Then, if you’re good, maybe we can see about giving you back your toy.”

Steffi stifled a yawn as she lowered herself into the chair at the head of the table in the dining room. An overlong shift spent poring over personnel movements with Rachel had left her bleary-eyed and wanting to throttle some of the more willfully persistent tourists. Having to follow that by stealing ten minutes to freshen up, then sitting at the head of a dining table for three or four hours of stroking the oversized egos of the more stupid upper-class passengers, was the kind of icing she didn’t need on her cake. But it’s better than being on the outside of the investigation, she told herself. And maybe she’d get some quality time with Max afterward; he was sitting up on the high table at the other side of the room, lofty but affable, everybody’s favorite picture of a senior officer. He’d need to blow off steam, too.

“Mind if I join you?” She looked round. It was Martin, the diplomatic spook’s right hand.

“By all means.” She managed a wan smile, keeping up appearances. Down the table, the middle-aged Nipponese woman smiled back at her, evidently mistaking its target, triggering an exchange of polite nods. By which time Martin was sitting to her left and idly scrolling through the menu. She looked around the table. It was half-empty. The troublesome kid was evidently eating in her room. So, come to think of it, were those creepy cultural exchange students from Tonto. Fucking stupid cover, she thought. A blind idiot could see there’s more to them than that. No such luck with the bankers, though.

“How’s your day been?” she asked quietly as the stewards collected the empty soup bowls. “I haven’t seen your wife in here — is she working?”

“Probably.” Martin winced and pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s looking for someone, and she tends to overdo it when she’s got her teeth into something. I tell her to take some time off, it’ll make her more effective, but … I’ve spent all day interviewing tourists. It’s giving me a headache.”