“Good,” her mother said finally. A low quiver ran through the spacecraft. “Your father will be pleased.”
Angela rolled her eyes again, even though she knew it made her look petulant. Her father wouldn’t give a damn what she wore. He was more interested in steering the family corporation through the postwar economic slump than anything else. Anyone could have a beautiful and charming daughter—the bodyshops and finishing schools would see to that—but very few men possessed his wealth and power. The ducal title had been passed to his younger brother, but the lack of noble appellation was meaningless. Robert Cavendish could buy half the aristocrats in the House of Lords, and everyone knew it.
“I’m sure, Mum,” she said. “When can we get this over with?”
Her mother’s expression tightened. She should be called Mother, not Mum. Mum was distinctly lower-class. Angela wondered if her mother would choose to make a fuss even though they didn’t have time. Somehow, marrying well, very well, hadn’t been enough to make Halle Cavendish comfortable. She responded sharply to any challenge to her position, real or imagined.
“We will be docking in two minutes,” her mother said. “And then we will disembark.”
She turned and marched out of the compartment. Angela followed, feeling tired. Nancy stood by the door, wearing a green dress of her own. Angela met her younger sister’s eyes, feeling a flicker of pity. Once she had bitterly resented Nancy’s fame—Nancy hadn’t done anything to deserve to be famous—but no longer. They had too many reasons to stick together.
“Very good,” their mother said. “Two peas in a pod.”
Nancy shot Angela a mischievous look as soon as their mother looked away. Angela winked back at her. There would be opportunities for fun on Supreme, she was sure, even though they’d have to be careful. The cruise liner was a controlled environment, just like the estate. Exciting, but also boring. None of the riffraff would be allowed to board. And yet . . . there were adventure decks, elaborate swimming pools, casinos, and plenty of other things to do. Marie wouldn’t be able to watch her constantly. She could sneak away if she tried. Perhaps she could find a crewman who would show her the engine rooms and other isolated sections of the ship.
And I’ll have to make sure that Nancy gets a chance to slip away too, she told herself. She deserves some freedom.
The hatch hissed open. Halle hurried out, carefully not glancing at the three manservants waiting outside. They would start unloading as soon as the ship docked, transferring their luggage to Supreme. Angela had wondered why they couldn’t keep the yacht with them, but she’d kept that question to herself, not wanting to give her father ideas. Going on the cruise was bad enough, but being stuck on the yacht for three months would be far worse. The bulkheads would start to feel oppressive within the week.
A dull thump echoed through the ship. They’d docked.
“We’ll be the first ones on the ship,” Nancy said. She walked next to Angela, her voice very quiet. “Won’t we?”
Their mother glanced back at them. “That is as it should be,” she said. “We do own the ship.”
You don’t own the ship, Angela thought nastily.
It was bitchy, but she didn’t care. Their mother wasn’t exactly a commoner, but she wasn’t particularly wealthy or well connected. Her family must have offered something really valuable to convince the Cavendish clan that she’d be a good match for Robert. Angela would inherit the family wealth, not her mother.
Or would she? Her father had given her a trust fund, de rigueur among the aristocracy, but he hadn’t ensured she had the proper training to manage one of the family businesses, let alone inherit the ducal title. Angela didn’t really expect to inherit that, but she did expect something more than a trust fund.
Father refuses to discuss it with me, she thought as they reached the outer hatch. The gravity quivered, reminding her that the spacecraft had landed inside another, far vaster vessel, one easily large enough to pass for a carrier. It was bigger than the family mansion back on Tyre. Maybe I just haven’t reached my majority yet.
The hatch was already open. Her father stood there, wearing a simple black suit, studying his wristwatch meaningfully. Beside him, a handful of his cronies gathered. Angela did her best to ignore them. They flattered her, when they bothered to take notice of her. She’d never met people quite so insincere in their praise and had no idea why her father tolerated them. Some of his cronies were clever, in their own way; others were just milksops and imbeciles with titles.
At least they’ll keep him busy, she thought. If nothing else, the more brainless among the group would probably cause problems her father would have to solve. And out of my hair.
She took a breath, tasting the scent of a new-build starship. Someone had perfumed the air with the scent of green forests and pinecones, but it wasn’t enough to hide the real smell. They were lucky that Supreme was new. The last liner she’d boarded had smelled of too many humans in too close proximity. She’d grown used to the scent within a day due to her genetic heritage, but her mother had bitched for days.
“You’ll go straight to your cabin,” her father said. His voice was firm. She had never dared to argue with that tone, not openly. “No detours along the way.”
That was fine with her. Besides, he hadn’t said anything about not leaving her cabin afterwards. Semantics, perhaps . . . it was all she had. All she’d have to do was get rid of Marie long enough to escape, if she could.
“Yes, Father,” she said.
Robert turned and strode through the hatch, his feet clanging on the stairway. Angela stepped out of the yacht behind her parents and saw the small welcoming committee wearing so much gold braid they practically glowed under the deck lamps. No doubt they were lining up to kiss her father’s ass as much as possible . . .
She groaned. It was going to be a long, long day.
CHAPTER FOUR
Under ordinary circumstances, Captain Paul VanGundy would never have dreamed of allowing another starship, even a much smaller one, to land inside his ship like an oversized shuttlecraft. The force fields surrounding the main shuttlebay could contain the blast if a shuttlecraft happened to explode, but he doubted they could stand up to an entire starship exploding. And yet, Corporate had insisted. If Robert Cavendish wanted to land his space yacht inside the shuttlebay, he was to be allowed to do so.
He kept his face under tight control as the yacht slowly lowered itself to the deck, the tractor beams ready to catch the ship if the antigravs lost control. The craft was impressive, he admitted sourly. The designer had taken a corporate jet design and scaled it up, sacrificing efficiency for elegance. Almost a shame, he thought, that the utterly unnecessary wings hadn’t been a little larger. If the yacht hadn’t been able to fit into the shuttlebay, it could have docked at one of the airlocks like a normal logistics ship.
And the wings wouldn’t keep her from falling out of the sky if the power failed, he thought morbidly. She wouldn’t be able to enter a planetary atmosphere without antigravs.
The thought made him smile as the deck vibrated under his boots. In theory, Supreme could land on a planetary surface; in practice, getting the cruise liner back into space would be practically impossible. She was just too big. The scientists had talked about an expanding series of antigravity platforms, but such musings seemed pointless. Robert Cavendish’s yacht was perhaps the largest thing that could realistically land on a planetary surface and take off again. Paul dreaded to think just how much she cost. Even full-sized military logistics shuttles were smaller.
He took one last look at the welcoming committee. Everyone was dressed to the nines, from the command crew to the stewards. The younger staffers looked nervous, although they were doing their best to hide it. Chances were they’d never meet anyone more important than Robert Cavendish and his family in their entire careers. King Hadrian wouldn’t travel on a private cruise liner, and neither would many others at the ducal level. Paul silently hoped his younger officers would
avoid any glaring mistakes during the voyage. He would defend them, if necessary, but Corporate might overrule him . . . if someone with enough influence brought pressure to bear on his superiors. It wasn’t something he cared for . . .
You’re not in the military now, buttercup, he told himself. Suck it up.
The hatch started to hiss open. A pair of deckhands hastily attached a mobile staircase to the yacht, then scurried away. Paul stood to attention, silently cursing his stiff uniform as Robert Cavendish appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked older than Paul had expected, even though he’d known that Cavendish was in his seventies. Vanity didn’t seem to be one of his vices, Paul decided. He could have had his age frozen at twenty-five, or whatever the current fashion was, but he didn’t seem to have bothered.
Cavendish was a tall man, walking as though the only thing keeping him upright was sheer determination. His face was lined, suggesting great age; it was hard to believe, somehow, that the younger woman next to him was his wife. Paul knew, of course, that marriages among the aristocracy were arranged, but he still found it odd that anyone had considered such a marriage acceptable. Not that it mattered. Halle Cavendish would have been of legal age when the contract was signed.
And she’s in her forties, Paul reminded himself. The file had made that clear. Halle Cavendish was mother to two children. She only looks twenty-five.
The two girls definitely looked their age, he decided. Angela Cavendish was nineteen, according to her file, but the ill-hidden petulance on her face made her look younger. Nancy, the famous Nancy, was just growing into her teens. Due to their resemblance, it would have been easy to believe that the two girls were twins if they hadn’t been seven years apart. But then, Nancy’s embryo could easily have been placed in stasis. Nancy, thankfully, didn’t look as sulky as her older sister or some of the other kids he’d seen on long voyages. He hoped that would last the entire trip.
“Mr. Cavendish, sir,” Paul said. He saluted, smartly. The protocol briefing had stated that Robert Cavendish didn’t have a title, but given his wealth, that was essentially meaningless. “Welcome onboard.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Cavendish said. He had an aristocratic accent, but one that sounded oddly dulled. Paul suspected that Cavendish spent as little time as possible with the other aristocrats. Everyone knew the best and most motivated engineers came from the commons. “It is a pleasure to come aboard.”
Paul nodded. “Please allow me to introduce a selection of my crew,” he said. “Commander Jeanette Haverford . . .”
He went through the entire roster, although he had the feeling that Cavendish wasn’t paying close attention. Paul wasn’t too surprised. Cavendish’s implants would have a complete list of crew, both operational and hospitality. He’d have no trouble looking up a crewmember if he wanted to know a name or issue a report to someone’s superiors. Indeed, Paul had the feeling that Cavendish was already bored. Corporate had insisted on the formal welcome, but they might have made a mistake.
Not that they will admit it, Paul thought.
“I thank you,” Cavendish said as soon as Paul had finished. “Please have your officers escort my daughters to their staterooms.”
Paul concealed his annoyance with an effort. He was the starship’s captain, damn it. No one should speak to him as though he were a glorified errand boy. But he was only captain as long as his superiors allowed it. A word from Cavendish could see his career destroyed.
“Certainly, sir,” he said. “Steward Evans, Steward France, escort Miss Cavendish and Miss Cavendish to their staterooms.”
The stewards bowed hastily. “Yes, sir.”
Matt hadn’t found it easy to remain calm as the yacht lowered itself to the deck. He was no expert, but he was fairly sure that landing an entire space yacht in a shuttlebay was amazingly risky. He’d been given no end of lectures on avoiding risk, on not being a hero . . . after all, he hadn’t joined the military. Any display of risk-taking would probably result in immediate dismissal, not promotion. And yet Robert Cavendish had been allowed to land his yacht in the shuttlebay. An unpardonable risk.
Cavendish hadn’t impressed Matt when he’d made his slow way down the stairs. He hadn’t crawled his way up from nothing, unlike some of Matt’s heroes. Matt had reviewed his file and discovered that Cavendish had inherited his power and position . . . and would have had the title too if he’d wanted it. Success was easy, Matt felt, if one started with such an advantage. The wife hadn’t struck him as very decent either. There hadn’t been much on her in the files, but Carla had insisted that, reading between the lines, she was a social climber. Marrying Robert Cavendish had catapulted her right up into the rarefied heights of high society.
But her daughter . . . Matt had to force himself not to stare as she came into view. Angela Cavendish was gorgeous, gorgeous in a way one couldn’t get from the bodyshops. She was beautiful, but it was more than just beauty. The slightly petulant expression on her face didn’t detract from her sheer presence. She drew him in and caught him. It was all he could do to keep his eyes off her.
His mouth felt dry. It was hard, very hard, to acknowledge the captain’s command.
“Yes, sir,” he said. He looked at Angela, fighting to keep his expression under control. “Please, will you come with us?”
Angela seemed oddly amused. “Of course,” she said. Even her voice was mesmerizing. “It will be our pleasure.”
Matt felt nothing but relief as they walked out of the shuttlebay. He had no idea what Captain VanGundy, Robert Cavendish, and his escorts had to say to one another. He didn’t care. His heart beat like a drum. He was silently glad Angela was behind him as they moved onwards, up towards Gold Deck. He would have stared if she’d been beside him.
“We have some luggage,” Nancy said. “Will it be brought to us?”
“Yes, My Lady,” Matt said. He could have kicked himself for practically forgetting Nancy Cavendish. She was famous . . . but she wasn’t her older sister. “The staff will transport your belongings to your quarters.”
After they search them, he added silently.
He had to smile at the absurd thought. Robert Cavendish wouldn’t be planning to hijack Supreme. He practically owned the ship. Matt couldn’t imagine any of his family trying to smuggle weapons onboard, but that meant nothing. His training had included a brief description of all the tricks smugglers had used, from stowing weapons in diplomatic pouches to convincing innocent civilians to carry sealed packets for them. Cavendish’s family would make ideal unknowing mules. Who’d dare to look too closely at their bags?
Several answers occurred to him. He pushed them aside, sharply. Saying any of them out loud would be the end of his career.
“This is Gold Deck,” he said as they reached a hatch, covered with the corporate logo in gold. “You cannot pass through this hatch without permission.”
Angela spoke from behind him. “Is there a way to get permission?”
Matt blinked at the question. “If you purchased a stateroom on Gold Deck, you have automatic permission to visit the public areas of this section,” he said. The hatch opened silently. “If you didn’t, you require permission from someone who did.”
“Or be a member of the crew,” Nancy said. She stepped past Matt and into Gold Deck. “Or be a dab hand at fiddling with computers.”
Matt had the uneasy sense he was being teased. “The datanet is very secure, My Lady,” he assured them. “Only the captain has the codes necessary to rewrite the system.”
“Nancy, behave,” Angela said, sounding more amused than angry. “You can chat in our staterooms.”
She turned her smile on Matt. “Which way?”
Matt had to look away. “This way, My Lady,” he said. “They’re right at the front.”
He led the way down the corridor, wondering just how rich the two young women actually were. He wasn’t sure their wealth could be actually measured without resorting to imaginary numbers, but it was evident. Gold Deck was
staggeringly luxurious by any realistic standard, yet neither Angela nor Nancy seemed impressed. They ignored the sheer finery. Their eyes passed over paintings and statues worth more than what the entire crew earned in a year.
The aureate staterooms opened up in front of him. He stepped to one side, inviting the two women to walk into the compartment. Their antechamber was nearly ten times as spacious as his sleeping compartment, yet it was only the beginning. The stateroom included five large bedrooms for the family—he wondered wryly if Robert Cavendish and his wife slept apart—a private kitchen, a giant entertainment room, and sleeping quarters for the servants. A small army could have shared the stateroom without being too uncomfortable.
Nancy opened a door, not a hatch, and peered into one of the bedrooms. A moment later her face twisted with rage. “They think I’m a child!”
Her older sister laughed, not unkindly. “You are a child.”
“I’m twelve,” Nancy insisted. “I’m not a baby!”
Matt followed her gaze. The bedroom was pink, bright pink. A small pile of presents lay on the bed, orbited by balloons. A giant teddy bear, larger than Nancy herself, sat on the armchair. He had no doubt who was meant to have the pink bedroom. Nancy’s name was clearly written on the door.
Angela giggled. “How old does Mother think you are again?”
Carla cleared her throat. “My Lady, we can have the color changed—”
“Please,” Nancy said. She looked as though someone had tossed her a lifeline. “Something else, anything else . . .”
“Yellow with pink polka dots,” Angela said. She smiled brilliantly. “Or green with—”
“Shut up,” Nancy said.
Matt was torn between amusement and an odd kind of envy. He couldn’t imagine just how much money had been lavished on the suite. Nancy’s presents alone had probably cost a fortune. And yet they could get them changed easily. Their lives had to be so easy. Money made everything easy.
The Hyperspace Trap Page 4