The Hyperspace Trap

by Christopher Nuttall

  Matt followed Carla over to join the other stewards, nodding politely to a few of his friends and bunkmates. He hadn’t found much time to get to know his new crewmates as they’d spent the last two months either drilling or sleeping, but none seemed to be bad apples. Besides, they’d all been warned to keep their disagreements to themselves. No one would give a damn if a steward spent some time in the brig and then was unceremoniously dismissed when the starship reached the next port of call.

  There was little chatter. Matt surveyed the chamber, feeling a chill running down his spine. The stewards didn’t look precisely identical—that would have been too creepy, even for Corporate—but they all had the same general appearance. Boyish good looks for the men, blatant sex appeal for the women. Focus groups insisted that they looked attractive to everyone, whatever their orientation. The old sweats hadn’t said much about that, on the record, but off the record, the new stewards had had quite a few warnings. It was astonishing what some guests wanted, apparently. And very few of the guests were used to hearing anyone say no.

  Even the third-class passengers spent more on this cruise than I can earn in a year, Matt reminded himself. Corporate considers them more important than me.

  Falcon cleared his throat as soon as the last couple of stewards hurried into the compartment. Matt allowed himself a sigh of relief. Traditionally, the unwanted jobs went to the latecomers . . . even though they’d technically arrived on time. The last thing he wanted was to get noticed. Meet-and-greet duty was bad, but there were worse tasks.

  “Three minor updates,” Falcon said. He scowled at the newcomers as if they were personally to blame. “First, two of the casino staffers failed to return to the ship. They have not yet been located, but I’ve been informed that I may have to provide two replacements. This is not a good thing.”

  Matt kept his face expressionless. The casino staff were technically separate from the rest of the crew for reasons he was sure made sense to someone in Corporate, but they’d had some cross-training. He didn’t envy whoever was picked to work in the casino. The tips were high, but so was the prospect of an unlucky gambler turning violent. He wasn’t looking forward to having to remove an unruly guest. The exercises had clearly indicated that he could do everything right and still get blamed. Corporate would sooner dismiss a steward, hopefully with a decent severance package, than fight a lawsuit in the courts. The bad publicity would override any sense of obligation to their employees.

  “Second, the remaining cabins have been sold and the updated guest manifest has been uploaded,” Falcon continued. “Take a moment to inspect it. If you have any concerns, please feel free to mention them to me. As always, all reports will be treated in strict confidence.”

  A flicker of disquiet seemed to echo through the compartment. Matt wasn’t surprised. This was his first cruise, but he’d heard the rumors. In theory, reports were private; in practice, the process didn’t always work that way. A prospective guest who’d been blacklisted or put on a watch list might sue, particularly if no evidence beyond rumor was presented that he’d been reported for anything. Matt didn’t think that Falcon would set out to betray his subordinates—the man was fussy, but decent—yet he also knew that Corporate might not give the senior steward any choice.

  “Third, the roster for Gold, Silver, and Bronze Decks has been updated,” Falcon added. Two dozen wristcoms bleeped in unison as the roster was downloaded into their tiny brains. “If you have any problems, make sure you let me know by the end of gamma shift. I’ll publish the final roster tomorrow.”

  Matt nodded. Only a brave steward would ask to be transferred. He rather doubted anyone would, unless it was their last voyage. Falcon had had to balance a whole list of priorities when putting the roster together. The best interests of the stewards were right at the bottom. He made a mental note to check the roster as soon as he could, although he knew his diligence hardly mattered. Whatever came his way . . . well, he’d have to suck it up. He wasn’t wealthy enough to afford his own cabin on a cruise liner.

  Falcon spoke briefly, assigning duty slots. The latecomers found themselves heading to the casino, not entirely to Matt’s surprise. Others were assigned to supervise cleaning crews and inspect cabins, make-work as much as anything else. Matt forced himself to memorize who went where, just in case he needed to find any of his crewmates in a hurry. Stewards weren’t encouraged to socialize outside their own little circles.

  “Steve, Danielle, Matt, Carla . . . you’re still assigned to meet-and-greet,” Falcon finished. “It will be the captain in charge, not I. Reread your protocol briefings; then report to the main shuttlebay for 0930. Do not fuck up.”

  Matt swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  The others didn’t look any happier, he thought, which didn’t bode well. Carla and Steve had served on other liners before transferring to Supreme. They’d presumably gone through the duty already. He exchanged a worried glance with Danielle, who was as green as Matt himself, and then looked down at his wristcom. He’d already reviewed the protocol, but he would make sure to do so again before reporting to the shuttlebay. Fucking up in front of the captain might just get him a one-way ticket out of an unsecured airlock. VanGundy had practically boundless authority on his ship.

  Although Corporate would probably be pissed if he upset the guests, Matt thought as Falcon continued to rattle off assignments. That would get him fired . . .

  He pushed the thought aside. Falcon had raised his voice.

  “The next few days are going to be chaotic,” the senior steward informed them. “Those of you who have been on other liners will know this already, but it will be worse here. You’ll find yourselves worked to the bone. Please rest assured that things will settle down—a little—once we open the vortex and get under way. We’ll have time to catch up then.”

  And go over everything we did wrong, Matt thought. The exercises had been bad. Falcon and the other supervisors, all the way up to the XO herself, had made sure everything that could go wrong did go wrong. Some of us might even be marked down for doing our duty at the wrong time.

  “Report to your assigned stations,” Falcon concluded. “And make sure you have a moment to check the duty roster.”

  Carla snagged Matt as he headed for the hatch. “You did read the alert note, didn’t you?”

  “Of course,” Matt said. Steve and Danielle fell in beside them. “Prostrate ourselves in front of them, never taking our heads off the deck until they walk past—”

  Steve elbowed him. “These aren’t regular guests,” he said. “They’re our great . . . uh . . . something bosses. A hair out of place could get us in real trouble.”

  “They might tip well,” Carla added. “But . . . better to be very careful.”

  Matt groaned. “Should I try to take a sick day?”

  “Only if you want to spend the next few days in Sickbay,” Steve said. “Dr. Mackey isn’t kind to malingerers.”

  “You’d have to take something poisonous to make it convincing,” Carla added. “You really don’t want a demerit on your record now.” She made an unconvincing sickly face. “But we’re nothing more than ants to them,” she said. “I doubt they’ll pay any real attention to us.”

  “Oh,” Matt said, “I hope you’re right.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You can’t keep hiding here forever, My Lady,” Marie said. “We’re on our approach to Supreme now.”

  Angela Cavendish knew Marie was right, but she tried to ignore her anyway. The family yacht was tiny compared to Supreme, yet it was still large enough to provide dozens of nooks and crannies she could use as hiding places . . . if, of course, the person hunting for her didn’t have access to the ship’s datanet. Her governess didn’t have to waste her time searching all three decks. Marie had probably just asked one of the crew. The tiny compartment Angela had found wasn’t enough to hide her from the onboard security systems.

  “It’s good enough,” she said. She leaned into the miniature space,
wondering if her governess would try to drag her out. “Father doesn’t need me along, does he?”

  “He expects you to disembark with him, My Lady,” Marie said briskly. As always, she sounded commanding. She could afford to sound commanding. Angela didn’t pay her wages. “And I have orders to prepare you.”

  “Consider them countermanded,” Angela said. “Just leave me alone.”

  “That’s not an option, My Lady,” Marie said. Her respectful tone didn’t disguise her irritation. “Your mother is expecting you too.”

  Angela rolled her eyes. “I’m sure she won’t mind if I’m late,” she lied. “Go back and tell her that you couldn’t find me.”

  Marie’s face darkened. “She will know that to be a lie, My Lady,” she said primly. “I will not tell her anything of the sort.”

  “Hah,” Angela said. It wasn’t Marie’s fault that Angela’s mother wanted her. Angela knew it wasn’t Marie’s fault. And yet she wanted to blame the older woman anyway. The governess had been a permanent presence in her life, silently watching in cold disapproval since Angela had turned nine. She had no doubt that Marie spied on her for her parents. The woman didn’t have a choice. “Mother is too busy telling the servants what to do.”

  “Come with me, My Lady,” Marie said. “Please.”

  Angela sighed. Marie wouldn’t lay a finger on her. She was sure of that. But she would go and tattle to Angela’s parents, neither of whom would be pleased. Her mother would be upset Angela was daring to think for herself, while her father would be annoyed that Angela was defying him. There were times, too many times, when Angela thought her father had made a mistake in marrying her mother. The age gap between them made it hard for him to empathize with his wife, let alone his daughter.

  And he thinks I should do as I am told, she thought.

  She stood and inched carefully out of the compartment, feeling the deck quivering under her bare feet. Marie eyed Angela disapprovingly until she slipped her feet into her sandals. Then the governess turned and walked down the corridor. Angela followed, nodding politely to a pair of crewmen. They both pretended not to see her. She wasn’t too surprised, not really. Her father was their ultimate boss. A word from him could have them both begging in the gutter.

  I should have gone into the navy, she thought.

  She had considered it, years ago. There was no shortage of aristocrats who’d gone into the navy. One of them, Kat Falcone, had practically won the war by herself. But Angela’s father had vetoed it the single time she’d mentioned the possibility. His influence would have been more than enough to keep her out of the service if she’d abandoned her family and tried to sign up anyway. And besides, she couldn’t leave her sister at her mother’s mercy. The poor girl was famous, and their mother had never stopped trying to take advantage of the spotlight.

  Marie sniffed as they reached Angela’s mother’s stateroom. A pair of maids stood outside, their faces so artfully expressionless that Angela knew they were pissed. She didn’t blame them either. Her mother was a trial and a half. The maids, with duties consisting of everything from hairdressing to cleaning up, were paid well over the going rate, but her mother had problems keeping servants for long. Marie was probably the longest-serving person in her employ.

  The hatch hissed open. Angela stood upright and walked forward, feeling like a convict going to her execution. The stateroom was vast yet crammed with boxes and bags. Her mother had brought everything she simply couldn’t live without, apparently. Angela rather thought she’d brought her entire wardrobe for the journey. Cold logic insisted that such a feat was impossible—her mother would require a bulk freighter to carry her full collection of couture garments—but it was hard to believe otherwise.

  “Angela,” her mother said, “where have you been?”

  Angela sucked in her breath. Halle Cavendish was looming over Nancy Cavendish, carefully brushing Nancy’s hair. Judging by the expression on the twelve-year-old girl’s face, she was enjoying the moment about as much as an unexpected math exam. The look she shot her sister—Get me out of here!—made that clear.

  “I was busy,” Angela said sullenly. Her mother was busy. Perhaps she’d let it rest at that. And maybe pigs would fly. “What can I do for you?”

  “Get undressed and change into a dress,” her mother ordered. “Marie can do your hair once you’re ready.”

  “I don’t have to wear a dress,” Angela insisted. She jabbed a finger at her shirt. “This is more than enough.”

  Her mother gave her a sharp look. “You are not going to a weekend retreat where you’re alone with your family,” she said. “This is a cruise liner heaving with the great and the good.”

  Angela bit down on a sarcastic remark about never being alone when she was with her family. Her mother wouldn’t see the funny side. Besides, Nancy was starting to fidget under her mother’s ministrations. By the time Halle was finished, her youngest child would look like an inhuman china doll. Angela had come to suspect a long time ago that their mother saw her daughters more as animated dolls than living beings with wills of their own.

  “Fine,” she said shortly. If nothing else, she’d distract her mother from Nancy. “I’ll get into my glad rags. And I’ll take them off as soon as we’re in our cabins.”

  She strode into the next compartment, silently urging Marie to remain behind. The governess didn’t, of course. Angela promised herself, again, that she’d sack Marie as soon as she inherited her father’s corporation. The few moments when Marie had actually been helpful didn’t make up for the near-complete lack of privacy or the grim awareness that Angela’s parents would be made aware of any misdeeds as soon as she committed them.

  “I’ll get your dress ready,” Marie said. “Do you want a quick shower?”

  The nasty part of Angela’s mind was tempted to answer yes. It would waste time, time they didn’t have. Her mother could hardly object if her eldest daughter did as she was told, could she? But the gesture would also annoy her father, and her father had too many other problems to worry about. He might ground her until she grew into her majority.

  Although three months in a stateroom would be enough, Angela thought moodily. The servants would do what her father told them. If he grounded her, they’d enforce his wishes. And I can’t stay in the cabin for a day without going mad.

  She stripped off her shirt and shorts, then inspected herself in the mirror. The genetic engineering spliced into her family’s DNA had done wonders, as always. She was physically perfect: long strawberry-blonde hair spilling down her back, bright blue eyes, a pale and utterly unblemished face . . . the bodyshops could turn anyone into a goddess if the subject had the money, but Angela had never set foot in a bodyshop in her life. She’d had long blonde hair before Kat Falcone made it fashionable. The other modifications seemed almost unnecessary. And yet she knew they might be more vital, in the long run, than anything purely cosmetic.

  Marie fussed around her, holding up a long emerald dress that looked like something out of a fairy tale. Angela groaned, inwardly, but made no attempt to resist as her governess draped the garment over her body. She’d actually enjoyed the fashions during the war, when high society had done its level best to indicate that it too was suffering. The dresses might have been made from expensive materials, but they’d been simple . . . now, she had a frock with too many frills to feel comfortable. And the bodice made her look and feel ridiculous.

  “You look divine, My Lady,” Marie said.

  “Bah,” Angela said. Marie was paid to lie.

  She tensed as Marie fixed her hair, tying it back into a long ponytail that hung down to the small of her back. The governess seemed to think that Angela was nothing more than a doll too, just like her mother. Angela gritted her teeth as her hair was pulled, a handful of individual locks plucked out and discarded. Long hair was a nuisance, she’d come to realize, but she couldn’t have it cut. Her mother would march her straight down to the family’s private bodyshop and have her tresses reg
rown instantly.

  She’d probably consider it an excuse to visit for herself, Angela thought nastily. She already spends too long in the bodyshops as it is.

  “Good enough, for the moment,” Marie said. She held a mirror up behind Angela’s head. “It will do.”

  Angela glared, knowing that Marie would see the expression in the mirror. “When I am an adult, all my parties will be held without a dress code.”

  Marie looked unimpressed. “And how will you know who to talk to, who to ignore, and who to cut dead?”

  “I won’t,” Angela said. “That’s the point.”

  She sighed as Marie continued to fuss around her. The Cavendish family gave at least one ball every month, but she’d never liked them. Her father and a few of his business partners—or cronies—sneaked off as soon as they decently could, while her mother and the other society madams gathered in small clusters to look down on the rest of the crowd. Angela had been able to slip off too when she’d been a child, but now . . . the only good thing about accompanying her parents on the cruise was that she wouldn’t be expected to help host parties. Unless her parents still managed to have a party anyway . . .

  The hatch opened. Her mother stepped into the compartment. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Marie said.

  Angela looked at her mother, who gazed back at her evenly. Halle Cavendish could easily pass for Angela’s sister rather than her mother. Angela had often wondered if her mother had simply cloned herself, even though it would have destroyed her marriage. The aristocracy took bloodlines seriously. Mothers were expected to carry their children to term rather than use an exowomb, but it was hard for Angela to see anything of her father in her features. Perhaps Robert Cavendish had used the bodyshops too when he was younger. Or perhaps Angela had inherited his brains rather than his looks. She loved her mother, most of the time, but Halle Cavendish wasn’t the brightest bulb on the tree.