Iron Sunrise

EPILOGUE: HOME FRONT

Home. It was getting to be a strange place, as alien as a hotel room on a distant planet. Rachel walked into the hall and dropped her shoulder bag, blinking tiredly: it was still three in the morning by the shipboard time of the Gloriana even though it was two in the afternoon there in Geneva, and the cumulative effects of switching from the hundred-kilosecond diplomatic clock back to a terrestrial time zone was going to give her bad jet lag.

Behind her, Martin yawned hugely. “How’s it look?” he asked.

“It’s all there.” She ran a finger along the sideboard tiredly. Something buzzed in the next room, a household dust precipitator in need of a new filter or a robot scavenger with a damaged knee. “Place hasn’t burned down while we’ve been away.” She stared with distaste at the bulletin board on the wall, flashing red with notices of overdue bills. “Really got to get a proper housing agent who understands three-month trips at short notice. Last time I was away this long they sent the polis round to break down the door in case I’d died or something.”

“You’re not dead.” Martin yawned again and let the front door swing shut. “I’m not dead. I just feel that way…”

Three months away from home had built up an enormous backlog of maintenance tasks, and Rachel couldn’t face them just then. “Listen. I’m going to have a shower, then go to bed,” she said. “You want to stay up and order some food in, be my guest. Or check the bills. But it can wait until tomorrow. Right?”

“You have a point.” Martin shrugged and leaned the big suitcase against the wall next to a hideously ugly wooden statue of the prophet Yusuf Smith that Rachel had picked up in a casbah somewhere in Morocco a few years earlier. “I was going to message Wednesday, see how she and Frank are doing, but — bed first.”

“Yeah.” Rachel stumbled up the steps to the mezzanine, dropping her sandals and clothes as she went, and gratefully registered that the house automatics had changed the sheets and freshened the comforter. “Home sweet home, safe at last.” After weeks of tension and the paranoid days at the mercy of the ReMastered, it seemed almost too good to be true.

She returned to consciousness slowly, half-aware of a pounding headache and a nauseated stomach, in conjunction with sore leg muscles and crumpled bedding and a thick, warm sense of exhaustion that pervaded her body as if she’d been drugged. Someday they’ll develop a drug for jet lag that really works, she thought fuzzily before another thought intruded. Where was Martin?

“Ow!” she moaned, opening her eyes.

Martin was sitting up in bed watching her, concerned. “You awake? I’ve been checking the mail, and we’ve got a problem.”

“Shit!” Rachel came to full consciousness in an instant, exhausted but painfully aware that she’d screwed up. “What is it?”

“Something about a meeting you’re meant to be in later today. Like, in an hour’s time. I nearly missed it — it’s directed to the household, flagged as low priority. What could it be?”

“Shit! It’s a stitch-up. Who is it?”

Martin blinked at the screen on the wardrobe door. “Something to do with the Entertainments and Culture Pecuniary Oversight Committee?” he asked, looking puzzled.

“Double shit!” A horrible sense of deja vu gripped her as she tried to sit up. “What time is it?”

“It’s two in the afternoon.” Martin yawned. “Let me forward it to you.”

Rachel read fast. “Departmental audit,” she said tersely. “I’m going to have to get into headquarters, in a hurry.”

Martin blinked. “I thought you’d taken care of that nonsense.”

“Me? I’ve been away. Thought you might have noticed.” She frowned.

“Leaving the fox in charge of the henhouse, it would seem. I wonder if my sources have found anything out about her…”

Bleary-eyed and tired, she spawned a couple of search agents to filter her mail — both the public accounts and a couple of carefully anonymized private ones.

“Looks like the asshole in Ents is acting up. Since I missed some kind of audit investigation six weeks ago, she managed to file a default reprimand against me. She’s gotten wind I’m back in town and is moving to file criminal malfeasance charges, embezzling or misuse of funds, or something equally spurious. She’s running a board of inquiry right now. If I don’t get there—”

“I’ll call you a pod.” Martin was already out of bed. “Any idea what she’s got against you?”

“I don’t know—” Rachel froze. The search had stopped, highlighting something new and alarming. “Oops! Head office are pissed.”

“Head office?”

“Black Chamber, not Entertainments and Culture. They don’t want her digging.” Rachel began to smile. “ ‘Stop her,’ they say. They don’t say how.”

“Take care,” said Martin, a flicker of concern on his face. “You don’t want to overreact.”

“Overreact?” She raised an eyebrow. “The bitch tried to get me slung out on my ass, she tried to obstruct a UXB operation, and she’s trying to file criminal charges against me, and I’m overreacting?” She paused over the arms locker at the back of the closet. “No, that would be overreacting. Don’t want to get blood in the carpet.”

He stared at her. “Did I just hear what I think I heard? You’re going to take her down?”

“Yeah. Although I don’t think I’ll need to use violence. That would be unsubtle, and I swore off unsubtle, oh, about thirty seconds ago.” Rachel peeled a transdermal patch onto the inside of her left elbow. Her gaze turned to the open case by the bedroom door, full of items she’d acquired over the course of the cruise on the Romanov. Gradually she began to smile. “I’ve got to make a couple of calls. This should be fun…”

The UN headquarters campus hadn’t changed visibly in Rachel’s absence — the same neoclassical glass-and-steel skyscraper, looming over old Geneva’s stone arteries and quaint domes, the same big statues of founders Otto von Bismarck and Tim Berners-Lee sitting out front in the plaza. Rachel headed into the lobby, looking around tensely. There was a civil cop standing by the ornate reception throne, talking to the human greeter there. Rachel nodded in their direction then moved on toward the antique elevator bank, feeling reassured. I wonder how George is doing? she asked herself as the doors slid open. Handling the aftermath of the New Moscow cleanup. Big headache, that.

The dossier on Madam Chairman that had been sitting in her mailbox — as per her back-channel requests, pulling in favors while she was away — was rather interesting, albeit increasingly worrying when she thought about the implications. Rising star, come out of nowhere, promoted rapidly, rivals recanting or resigning in disgrace or meeting with disaster: it was all a bit carnivorous for the normally laid-back UN, and to have a desk monster like that aiming squarely at her raised all sorts of nasty questions. Especially when you started asking where she’d gotten the money to buy that big house on the lakeshore …

The dossier wasn’t the only thing Rachel found in her inbox when she ran a search. Formal notice of a disciplinary tribunal, filed that morning with a hearing scheduled for early afternoon, was not exactly the sort of thing she expected to find mixed in with the bills — not when it could have been sent direct to her phone and flagged as a priority item. She paused outside the committee room, composing her face in a careful smile, then opened the door.

“—Has shown no sign of compliance with the designated administrative orders in spite of disciplinary notices delivered four months, three months, and most recently two days ago—” The speaker paused. “Yes?”

Rachel smiled. “Hello, Gilda.” Madam Chairwoman sat up straight and stared at her. Two yes-men to either side, and a secretary-recorder, and some gray-faced executive from accounts who’d been invited to witness all followed suit. “Sorry I’m late, but if you wanted to get my attention, you really ought to have mailed me direct rather than disguising the summons as a laundry bill.”

“Hello, Rachel.” Madam Chairman smiled coldly. “We were just discussing your negligent attitude to departmental procedures. So good of you to furnish us with a further example.”

“Really?” Rachel shut the door carefully, then turned back to face the room.

“You’re Mansour, eh?” began the accountant. “We’ve been hearing about you for weeks.” He tapped his tablet portentously. “Nothing good. What have you got to say?”

“Me? Oh, not much.” Rachel grinned. “But she’s got a lot of explaining to do.”

“I don’t think so.” Madam Chairman was tight-lipped with irritation. “We were just discussing your suspension pending a full investigation of your accounting irregularities—”

Rachel opened her hand. “Accounting irregularities cut both ways,” she said casually.

“I—” Madam Chairman stopped dead. “Is this some sort of joke?” she demanded.

Rachel shook her head. “No joke,” she said easily. She glanced at the yes-men. “You really don’t want to get involved in this. It’s going to be messy.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” Gray-face glanced between her and Madam Chairman. “What are you talking about?”

Rachel pointed a finger at him and polled her phone. “Ah, Dr. Pullman. My apologies. I take it she didn’t tell you who I work for?”

“Who you—” Gray-face, Pullman, looked confused for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“I’m Black Chamber. On the books via Ents purely for diplomatic cover and petty cash, which raises the question of why Gilda here thinks it’s her job to go sniffing around my work assignments as if she’s responsible for them.”

“Ah.” Pullman nodded thoughtfully. Good poker face, Rachel thought. Then he crossed his arms defensively. “That’s interesting.”

The yes-men were beginning to shuffle uneasily. “Look, I really don’t think this is germane to the matter of your time-keeping,” one of them began.

“Oh, but it is,” Rachel said smoothly. She pointed at Madam Chairman. “Because you’re not supposed to be digging into Black Chamber discretionary funding arrangements. I’m afraid I’m going to have to have you arrested.”

“What?” Madam Chairman looked tense. “You can’t do that! You aren’t attached to any recognized security service!”

“Oh, but I am.” Rachel’s smile widened. She raised one hand and checked her phone. “By the way, do you know something? You shouldn’t have tried digging so obviously. That wasn’t very clever, Gilda. It made people question your bona fides. You’re not the only person who can pick holes in an expense account, and I’m sure your colleagues will be very interested to know where you got the money to buy that big dacha outside Sevastopol. It’s funny where the trail leads. Not that there’s any expectation of exclusivity of service in your employment contract, Gilda, but we really don’t expect you to be diverting contingency funds intended for the Black Chamber into your own pocket.”

“What is this nonsense?” Gilda demanded. She lurched to her feet, clearly upset. “You’re trying to distract attention from your own misdeeds! This is transparent blackmail—”

Rachel twisted one of her rings. The door behind her opened, and the cop from the lobby came in. “That’s her,” Rachel said, pointing at Madam Chairman. “She’s all yours.”

“You can’t!” Gilda backed toward the window. “You’ve got no grounds!”

“Yes I have.” The cop flipped her visor up and stared at her tiredly. “Ye’ll be Gilda Morgenstern? I’m Inspector Rosa MacDougal. On February 4 of this year you was in a meeting with Rachel Mansour, here. You tried to stop her leaving, didn’t you? Aye, that wisnae so canny, was it? Her on her way to a UXB call-out an’ all, did it not occur to ye that it’s a statutory offense to obstruct a bomb disposal officer in the course of her duties? Or d’ye deny it was you what did that?”

Yes-man number two was looking at his boss in veiled horror. “Gilda, was it really—”

“Take her in and book her,” said Rachel, shaking her head. “I’ll deal with the other stuff later.” She looked at the auditor, Pullman. “You don’t want to get involved in this.”

“Bitch!” Madam Chairman walked around the conference table, all rustling silk and hissing vitriol. “I had you—”

“Now stop right there,” Inspector MacDougal warned.

Rachel glanced at the inspector, barely registering the angry bureaucrat raising a hand, the protests from the yes-man to her left, as she blinked at an unexpected thought. Lining her pockets diverting Black Chamber funds, gathering intel about our field activities, big dacha near Sevastopol, works in Ents and Culture — Something wasn’t right here, and there was more to it than simple embezzlement.

She tensed as Madam Chairman pointed a shaking finger at her. “Fraud!” She snapped. “I know your kind! Leeching funds from the diplomatic corps to prop up your corrupt schemes, then claiming you’re a defender of the public interest. You’re just another blood-sucking pawn of the Eschaton! And I can prove—”

Oh shit, Rachel thought, and she went quick, reached out through air like molasses to grab Rosa’s shoulder and tug her sharply away from the bureaucrat, vision graying at the edges as her implants kicked in. I know where I’ve heard that line before, and recently—

“Hey!” Inspector MacDougal protested as she stumbled backward. On the other side of the table Pullman was beginning to rise, a startled expression on his face as Gilda, her face contorted with rage, raised her other hand, an iridescent metallic bulb protruding between her fingers. She lunged toward Rachel, holding the device at arm’s length.

Off-balance, Rachel tried to turn away, but even with boosted reflexes there was a limit to what she could achieve without leverage. She scrabbled for the table edge on her way down toward the floor, feet unable to gain traction as she watched Madam Chairman, Gilda, a bureaucrat possessed, thrust the ReMastered implement toward her.

The first shot surprised Rachel almost as much as her attacker. Gilda jerked backward, eyes widening in confusion as a spray of red erupted behind her. Another shot, and Rachel hit the floor, rebounded in time to see MacDougal’s sidearm pointed at the woman. This is so bad, Rachel realized with a gut-deep stab of horror as time snapped back into focus, and she thumped painfully against the table legs. If they’re here …

“Oh dear,” said Pullman, his face ashen. “Was that really necessary?”

“Yes,” MacDougal huffed emphatically. She lowered her gun. “You. There’s a monitor on this room, isn’t there? I’m taking the log. I want it forwarded to LJ control immediately under seal of evidence.” She glanced down at her gun’s muzzle recorder, breathing deeply. “Along with the take from this thing.”

“You killed her!” Minion Number One sat bolt upright, an expression of horror stealing over him. “She won’t be able to—” He stopped.

“Upload them all, the unborn god will know its own,” Rachel said grimly, pulling herself to her feet. “Did you ever hear her say that?”

“No—” Minion Number One was staring at Minion Number Two, who hadn’t moved since Gilda stood up. A fine thread of drool descended from the side of the man’s mouth. “What’s wrong? What have you done to Alex?”

“Aye, what’s going on?” Rosa demanded. “What is that thing?” She gestured at the neural spike, which had rolled half under the table. Rachel glanced at it, then looked at the inspector. The cop was putting a good face on things, but her hands were shaky and her posture tense.

“Some of the shit I work with followed me home.” She laced her fingers together and began dialing her rings hastily. She frowned at Rosa, then glanced around the other committee members. “We’re all in this together. Let’s just hope that she was an isolated case.”

“An isolated case of what?” asked MacDougal.

“You’ll want to check her genetic profile against a murder, Maureen Davis, diplomatic corps, about six months ago.” Rachel realized she was breathing heavily. “Also anyone who’s visited her house in the past year. Colleagues, friends, whoever. Her type uses proxies.”

“And what type would those be?” Rosa stared at her through narrowed eyes.

“ReMastered.” Rachel twisted her rings. “George? Okay, message.” She waited for the voice mail intro to finish. “I have a suspect in the murder of Maureen Davis, Muscovite embassy.” She paused. “They’re here. A cell. Infiltrating us.” A frown wrinkled her forehead. “Probably the rogue faction, but I’m not sure.” She glanced at MacDougal. “Can you find out if she ever attended a function with a woman name of Steffi Grace, aka Miranda Katachurian? In the past year or so?”

“You’re saying this is related to a murder case?” asked MacDougal, as the door opened for Building Security, and a buzzing swarm of concern erupted into the room.

“More than one,” Rachel said grimly. “And they’re still happening.” What’s going to become of us? she wondered dully and, just for a moment, longed for the clear-cut certainties of a madman with a home brew nuclear device. But something told her that this one wouldn’t go away at the sting of a police wasp: indeed, it was only just beginning.

And outside the office — still hundreds of light years away — the Iron Sunrise continued to expand in its silent and deadly splendor, bearing down upon an Earth shrouded in comforting darkness.