The Hyperspace Trap

by Christopher Nuttall

  “I’ve also run my security teams through a series of exercises,” Slater continued. “If necessary, we can isolate compartments or entire decks and then clear them by force. We’ll be as gentle as possible, of course, but by that point we might be far beyond any gentle solution. At worst, we can dump knockout gas into any compartment and then pick up the sleeping beauties.”

  “Which will probably get us all fired,” Jeanette said. “Out the nearest airlock . . .”

  “Probably,” Slater said. “I should remind you, at this point, that we do not have comprehensive surveillance of the entire ship.”

  “The passengers would pitch a fit,” Jeanette commented.

  “Yes,” Paul said.

  He shook his head in wry amusement. Supreme wasn’t just a passenger ship. Travel on her was an experience. She had everything from a casino to a brothel, just to make sure that her passengers traveled in luxury. Even the third-class passengers, the ones who’d be crammed into tiny cabins on the lower decks, would have access to the entertainments. The thought of being recorded, even for security purposes, would horrify them. They’d be worried about blackmail or worse.

  “I am aware of the issues,” Slater said stiffly. “It is also my duty to make you aware of the implications. We may not be able to react to a crisis until it is already out of hand.”

  “I know,” Paul said.

  Slater didn’t look mollified. “A number of our passengers are also prime targets for kidnap,” he added. “While I have no reason to suspect internal trouble, I have to warn you that there is a prospect of being intercepted. I’d be much happier if we had an escort.”

  “So would I,” Paul admitted. Supreme wasn’t defenseless, but she was no warship. A destroyer could take her out if a captain had the nerve to close with the target. “I believe that Corporate is still trying to organize one.”

  “There have been no reports of pirate activity,” Jeanette added. “We’re not going to fly through the Ahura Mazda Sector.”

  “A good thing too,” Slater said. He looked at Paul. “Captain, I strongly advise you to ensure that we stay well away from any hyperspace storms. Who knows what they’re hiding?”

  “We will,” Paul said. Pirates were a threat. The Royal Navy had driven them out of Commonwealth space before the war, but they’d been on the rise when the navy’s attention had been diverted. It might take some time for the navy to resume its patrol routes and drive the pirates back out. “If nothing else, we can probably outrun any pirate ship.”

  “I wouldn’t take that for granted,” Slater said. “Robert Cavendish alone is worth a stupid amount of money.”

  Paul fought hard to keep his face expressionless. Robert Cavendish was one of the richest men on Tyre, perhaps the richest. Only the king and a handful of other aristocrats came close. He should have been a duke, and would have been if he hadn’t been more interested in building his empire. And he was Paul’s ultimate boss. It was a recipe for trouble.

  “True,” Jeanette agreed. She shot Paul a sympathetic look. “Doesn’t he have his own personal yacht?”

  “I imagine so,” Paul said. Cavendish was rich enough to own and operate a starship the size of a superdreadnought. Hell, he didn’t really need one. A smaller ship could offer as much comfort as a full-sized liner without having to employ over a thousand crewmen. “But there’s nothing to be gained by debating it.”

  “No, sir,” Slater agreed. “I suspect there is more to this cruise than simply traveling from place to place.”

  Jeanette gave him an odd look. “What makes you say that?”

  “I read the passenger manifest,” Slater said. “It isn’t just Robert Cavendish. It’s his close family and a number of cronies and hangers-on. And a number of smaller businessmen and nobility, enough to occupy an entire deck. I suspect they’re preparing a private planning session in between spending most of their time in the casino.”

  “Joy,” Paul said. He rubbed his forehead. Slater was right. Supreme would be a magnet for pirates, insurgents, and everyone else with an axe to grind. He’d even raised the issue with Corporate, only to be told to shut up and soldier. Reading between the lines, he’d come to the conclusion that Corporate wasn’t happy either. “Keep a close eye on the situation.”

  “Yes, sir,” Slater said.

  He took control of the display, adjusting the hologram to show off the weapons emplacements. Paul couldn’t help feeling that Supreme, for all of her elegance, looked faintly ridiculous. Her design was just too inefficient. But then a full-sized superdreadnought wouldn’t win any beauty awards. All that mattered was smashing her enemies as quickly as possible before they smashed her.

  “The weaponry crews are still drilling on the latest tactical simulations,” Slater said. “I believe we could hold our own long enough to escape a pirate ship. A regular military ship, however, would eat us for breakfast. Far better to avoid contact.”

  “And we will,” Paul said. “They’ll have some problems intercepting us.”

  “Unless they’re trailing us at a safe distance,” Slater said. He flipped the display to show a star chart. “And they do know where we’re going.”

  Paul exchanged glances with Jeanette. He had some leeway—he could alter course, once they were in hyperspace—but he had to take Supreme to her listed destinations. He couldn’t refuse to go to a particular world unless he had a very good reason. Corporate would be very annoyed with him, even if he could prove the world was under siege. If there was one thing corporations and the military had in common, there was always someone flying a desk who thought he knew better than the man on the spot.

  “If we can get an escort, we’ll be safe,” he said firmly. “And if we can’t, we’ll fly an evasive course. No one is expecting us to arrive on a precise date.”

  Jeanette smiled. “How lucky for us.”

  “Quite,” Paul agreed.

  He glanced from Jeanette to Slater. “Are there any other matters that need to be addressed?”

  Jeanette smiled mischievously. “Mr. Cavendish and his family will be expecting a formal welcome, sir,” she said. “You’ll have to dress up for it.”

  Paul tried not to groan. The regular uniform was bad enough—whoever had designed their attire clearly didn’t have to wear them—but the dress uniforms were worse. His outfit was covered in so much gold braid that he looked like an admiral from a comic opera navy, while the midshipmen and stewards resembled military captains and commanders. He’d never been able to shake the feeling that people were laughing at him behind his back whenever he wore the dress uniform.

  “Select a handful of junior officers and stewards to join the reception,” he said. The order was mean of him, but he might as well spread the misery around. Besides, he’d never met Robert Cavendish. The man might take offense if only a couple of people greeted him. “How many others do I have to meet and greet?”

  Jeanette made a show of consulting her terminal, as if she didn’t already have the information locked away in her mind. “There are three other passengers of sufficient status to warrant a personal greeting from you,” she said. “It would also build goodwill if you were to spend some time in each of the lounges.”

  “I’m sure it would,” Paul said. He told himself not to take it too personally. Kissing hands and buttocks—hopefully metaphorically—was part of his job now. Besides, he did have a good crew. Jeanette could handle anything that might reasonably be expected to happen while they were in orbit. “Is there anything else?”

  “Mr. Cavendish might demand your personal attention, sir,” Slater said. “We had a number of high-ranking guests on Capricorn. They seemed to believe that Captain Hammond was their personal attendant.”

  “And he does pay the bills,” Paul said. “Do we have anything on his previous conduct?”

  “No,” Jeanette said. She met his eyes. “In his case, sir, that might be meaningless.”

  Paul nodded stiffly. The host crews kept files on their guests, files that
were shared with other host crews. He’d heard they were even shared between corporations, although it was technically against corporate guidelines. An unpleasant passenger would discover that his reputation had preceded him.

  And a good passenger would have the same experience, he mused. It wasn’t something he wanted to discourage. But in a better way.

  “It might,” he agreed.

  He pressed his hands together, tiredly. It was probably a good sign. He’d seen some of the files. A number of people, powerful people, had been marked as everything from being lousy tippers to having wandering hands. Robert Cavendish wouldn’t have been spared.

  “I think we can hope for the best,” he said. “Are there any other matters?”

  “We may run out of special ultra-expensive Scotch,” Jeanette said. Logistics was her responsibility. “The shipment from Nova Scotia was delayed apparently.”

  Paul smiled. “Let’s hope that’s the worst problem we face,” he said. “They’ll have to drink expensive Scotch instead.”

  “Disaster,” Slater said, deadpan. “The end of the world.”

  “I’m sure some of them will feel that way,” Jeanette agreed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Wake up, you lazy bastard,” a female voice said. “You’re late!”

  Junior Steward Matt Evans sat upright, confused. Where was he? He’d been out late last night on Downunder Station, barely managing to catch the departing shuttle back to Supreme. His head felt as though someone had opened his skull and crammed it with cotton. Several minutes passed before he remembered that he’d made it back to the ship and his bunk before collapsing into blessed sleep. He’d been lucky. A few minutes longer in the pleasure bars would probably have cost him his career.

  “Fuck,” he muttered. “What time is it?”

  “Oh-eight-thirty,” Carla France said. She was stripping off her nightclothes as she spoke. “The others are already on their way to breakfast.”

  “Fuck,” Matt said again. He’d stuffed a handful of ration bars in his locker, a precaution he’d learned from one of the old hands, but they tasted of cardboard. Not that it really mattered, he told himself as he reached for his water bottle. There was no time to go for a proper breakfast before he was expected on duty. He would just have to make do. “I need a shower.”

  “And a shave,” Carla told him bluntly. “What were you drinking last night?”

  Matt couldn’t remember. The stewards had been granted leave following an endless series of emergency drills, which had started to blur together in his mind, and he’d spent the day in the pleasure bars. Wine, women, and song . . . more of the wine than anything else, if his pounding head could be trusted. Carla passed him a sober-up without comment. Matt took the tab and pressed it against his neck, wishing she’d thought to wake him earlier. But he’d only have felt worse.

  Carla turned and headed for the washroom. Matt watched her go, silently admiring her nude body. Like him, she’d been to the bodyshop. Corporate insisted on a specific image for its stewards, and neither of them was in any position to object. Carla was twenty-two, the same age as Matt, but her long brown hair, heart-shaped face, and hourglass figure made her look nineteen. Matt felt his cock stir and flushed, embarrassed. Corporate also had very strict rules against stewards winding up in bed together, which had been drilled into him after he’d signed up for the job.

  Down boy, he told himself. He wasn’t used to casual nudity. His homeworld had been a place where men and women were expected to cover themselves from head to toe. The old hands, those who had sailed on Supreme and other interstellar cruise liners, had sworn the younger hands would get used to it, but Matt found that hard to believe. It wasn’t easy to separate the tall tales from the bullshit. One of the very old hands had claimed, with a straight face, that he’d had a threesome with two very rich girls on Queen of Space. Matt hadn’t believed a word, although he did have to admit the story sounded more convincing than the incident with the female swimming team . . .

  He stood and opened his locker, silently blessing his superior for insisting that he have everything sorted out before he left the ship. The ration bars were where he’d left them, their brightly colored wrappings silently mocking him. Rumor had it that decent-tasting ration bars existed, but he’d never met them. He unwrapped one and ate it slowly, taking a sip of water with each bite to help it go down. The bar tasted worse than cardboard.

  Carla stepped out of the washroom. Matt caught a glimpse of her breasts and looked away, hastily. He didn’t have time to get distracted. He kept his eyes on the unoccupied bunks as Carla moved past him, then hurried into the washroom himself. It was a tiny compartment, barely large enough for a single man. He’d been told that the space had been deliberately kept small to limit the chances for hanky-panky, but he suspected a more reasonable explanation was that the corporation wanted to save money. Outfitting Gold Deck alone had probably cost more than the GPP of a stage-two colony world.

  The corporation has money to burn, he told himself as he stepped into the shower and turned on the water. Thankfully the cruise liner didn’t have to ration water. He’d been told that military starships did ration water, although he didn’t believe it. There was no reason why water couldn’t be recycled or, if worse came to worst, harvested from a passing comet. They can afford a few minor luxuries.

  He wanted to spend longer in the shower, but he knew he didn’t have the time. The drying field tickled over his skin as soon as he turned off the water, flicking droplets all over the compartment. Matt couldn’t recall who was on cleaning duty this week—the stewards were expected to keep their own compartments as neat and tidy as they could—but he hoped it wasn’t him. He’d been too busy over the last few weeks to keep track of the rota.

  “Hurry,” Carla snapped from outside. She banged the washroom door. “You do not want to be late.”

  Matt nodded and stepped out of the compartment, as naked as the day he was born. Carla paid no attention to him, for which he was grateful. She was already dressed and applying makeup, as if she needed it. He reached for his uniform and donned it, slowly and carefully. Senior Steward Dominic Falcon wouldn’t be pleased if his shirt wasn’t tucked in and his jacket brushed clean.

  “Don’t forget your cap,” Carla reminded him. “We’re on greeting duty this morning, remember?”

  “Yeah,” Matt said. He reached for his cap and placed it on his head. “Just give me a moment to check myself.”

  He inspected himself in the mirror, feeling faintly out of place in his own body. The bodyshop hadn’t changed that much, but they’d done enough to make him feel as though a stranger was looking back at him. His short blond hair, blue eyes, smooth face, and muscular body were, according to the focus groups, just right for a young male steward. Matt wasn’t so sure—the body was a little too perfect—but Corporate wasn’t interested in his opinions. If the passengers wanted to be surrounded by beautiful people, male and female, the corporation would ensure that was what they got.

  The white uniform clung to him, practically glowing under the light. He had enough gold braid to pass for a military officer or member of the command crew, even though he was a mere steward. He had little prospect of climbing any further than senior steward, he’d been warned. Matt didn’t mind too much, if he were honest. A few years on Supreme would be enough to set him up for life, particularly if he saved his wages or made sure to get a good reference from the corporation. There wasn’t that much demand for trained stewards outside the cruise liners, but he could take his skills to a hotel on Tyre if he wished.

  “Looking good,” Carla said. She inspected him. “You’ve got muscles on your muscles.”

  Matt did his best to ignore her. Whoever had designed the uniforms was a sadist. Comfort had been sacrificed for sex appeal. Neither of them was walking around naked, but they didn’t have to. A person with a little imagination could easily fill in the blanks.

  We’re lucky we’re all reasonably handsome, he told him
self. And we get to keep the look afterwards, if we like it.

  He smiled. Toying with truth, the old sweats had claimed that Corporate had wanted to make sure all the male stewards were as ugly as sin, just so they couldn’t compete with the passengers when it came to attracting female attention. Or male attention, if the passengers swung that way. Matt was tempted to believe them. Corporate had inflicted other indignities on its stewards and the rest of the crew. At times he felt that his wages weren’t worth having to bow and scrape in front of people who obviously didn’t give a damn.

  “You too,” he said as he reached for his wristcom and put it on. The device bleeped a moment later as it interfaced with his implants, then linked automatically to the shipboard datanet. He’d been warned, in no uncertain terms, not to leave his quarters without it. The wristcom wasn’t just for communicating; it gave him access to much of the ship. “Shall we go?”

  Carla nodded and opened the hatch. Matt took one last look at the compartment—their superiors might decide to inspect the space at any moment—and then followed her down the starship’s bare corridor. The passengers . . . the guests, he reminded himself . . . never saw this part of the ship, unsurprisingly. Corporate had decided to save money by ensuring that crew passageways were left barren. The only decor was the corporate logo, visible on every hatch. Matt rolled his eyes in amused disbelief. There was no reason to believe that anyone had forgotten just who had designed and built the giant ship. Matt didn’t think there was anything, from the fittings in the staterooms to the gifts in the shop, that hadn’t come from the Cavendish Corporation.

  A hatch hissed open in front of them, revealing the briefing room. Senior Steward Dominic Falcon was standing at the front, looking down at a datapad. He’d been luckier than his younger subordinates, Matt thought. The bodyshops had given him a more dignified appearance—gray hair, kindly eyes, commanding face—even though they had also made him look remarkably frail. Falcon couldn’t be much older than Matt himself, but he looked as if a strong gust of wind would blow him over. He’d been sailing on cruise liners for the last decade.