The Hyperspace Trap

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Thank you, sir,” she said.

  “You’re welcome,” Paul said. “What about Garston’s partner?”

  “I do not believe that he was aware of Garston’s condition,” Joan said. She sounded oddly sympathetic. “And, in any case, he had no obligation to report it. My gut feeling is that we should leave him alone, at least until we return home. Corporate will want to speak to him.”

  “Yeah,” Paul agreed. He felt a flicker of pity, mingled with annoyance. What had Garston been thinking? This would never have happened in the navy. “I’m sure that’ll be enough punishment for anything.”

  “Yes, sir,” Joan said.

  “Make sure you record everything,” Paul warned. “Dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Joan said. “I already have.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “There you are,” Marie said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Angela felt her heart sink. She’d been doing her best to hide on the beach—technically, a massive swimming pool with real sand—but Marie had tracked her down. She looked down at the telltale on her wrist, thinking unprintable thoughts. The starship’s crew wouldn’t refuse her father if he asked them to find his daughter for Marie. Maybe she could just swap it for Nancy’s . . .

  “The dinner is in two hours,” Marie continued, scowling down at her. “You have to come with me.”

  Her eyes flickered over Angela’s bathing suit. “And what . . . exactly . . . do you think you’re wearing?”

  Angela rolled her eyes. She knew it made her look childish, but she didn’t care.

  “It isn’t a very daring suit,” she said, looking down at herself. Two triangles of cloth over her nipples, a third over her vagina . . . it left very little to the imagination, but there were girls and boys on the pretend beach who were leaving nothing to the imagination. She wasn’t getting much attention. “I could be naked.”

  Marie sighed. “On your feet, young lady,” she said. “We have to get you dressed.”

  “I don’t have to go,” Angela said. “I’m sure everyone would be much happier without me.”

  “Your father says otherwise,” Marie said. Her lips thinned, a sure sign she was running out of patience. “Do you want to argue with him?”

  Angela considered it. Marie wasn’t going to physically drag her back to the stateroom, was she? She found it hard to imagine. Her family would never live it down. And yet she knew better than to argue with her father when he was in one of his moods. She hadn’t seen much of him since they’d boarded, but when she had, he’d always given the impression of being preoccupied.

  He could be enjoying himself instead, she thought. There was an elderly couple sitting farther down the beach, sipping martinis. He could relax.

  Her lips quirked. She couldn’t imagine her staid father sitting on the beach drinking wine, let alone eyeing girls young enough to be his granddaughters. Logic told her that her parents must have been young once, but she found the concept difficult to grasp. Her father had probably been wearing one of his trademark suits when he was born. The idea of him running around like one of the younger scions of the aristocracy, chasing girls and spending money as though it would never run out . . .

  “Come with me,” Marie snapped. “Now.”

  Angela sighed and stood, brushing sand off her body as she took one last wistful look towards the water. The beach was impressive, she had to admit, giving the impression of running for miles in all directions, even though she knew that the entire chamber couldn’t be much larger than a couple of football fields. The combination of holographic projections and privacy fields gave the illusion that there was no one near the revelers.

  “I need to shower,” she said, heading towards the towel rack. “And change into something a little more fitting.”

  “And there I was thinking you’d want to walk through the ship wearing that,” Marie said from behind. “Put on a robe and move it.”

  Angela rolled her eyes again. She was fairly sure no society reporters were lurking on Gold Deck, but she knew better than to take that for granted. Someone might just record footage of her walking through the corridors in her skimpy costume, then sell it to the tabloids or merely upload it to the datanet when they returned home. It was pathetic, but there were people who’d pay good money for real recordings of famous people.

  Not that I’m that special, she thought. The tabloids had never paid much attention to her, not when her cousins were so much more scandalous. There were girls and boys who would have found the lack of attention annoying, but she thought it was a relief. They’d be more interested in some of the other socialites.

  She pulled a robe over her swimming costume, then glanced at her reflection in the nearest mirror. Her hair was untamed, giving her a wild look. There were boys who liked that sort of look, she thought. Perhaps, if she showed up at the dinner with unkempt hair, she’d set a new fashion trend. She’d never cared that much for fashion, but her father’s money and power made her a trendsetter . . .

  Behind her, Marie cleared her throat. Angela sighed as she led the way to the door. Right . . . there was no way her governess, or her mother, would let her attend a fancy dinner without making sure she was as pretty and perfect as a doll. By the time the staff were done, she’d look utterly unrealistic, as fake as some of the pretty-boy stewards walking around.

  And some of the older women, she thought nastily. They look young, but it’s clear they’re old.

  She walked down the corridor, silently trying to pretend that Marie wasn’t with her. Gold Deck had livened up over the past few days, with guests gambling in the casinos or splashing their way through the swimming pools. She had no doubt that a number of shipboard romances had already started. What happened on Supreme stayed on Supreme. She had no idea what the ship’s actual motto was, if there even was an official motto, but she was fairly sure she knew what the unofficial motto was. A trio of guests—one man, two women—walked past her, the women wearing outfits sparkling with electric light. They’d better hope that whatever happened on Supreme stayed on Supreme.

  Behind her, Marie sniffed. Angela allowed herself a slight smile, knowing that the older woman couldn’t see her. Marie must have been irked if she was allowing her emotions to show so freely; normally she was very unemotional in public. Angela thought she should be relieved instead. The governess’s charge was a trial at times, Marie had told Angela often enough, but at least she didn’t follow the stupidest fashions . . .

  But I might have done so if I’d had more freedom, she thought.

  A disconcerting thought, too disconcerting for her to want to consider it. She’d seen too many trust fund brats go into rehab only to destroy their lives again and again. They drowned themselves in pleasures, going further and further for the ultimate high. She’d resented her parents for being controlling, but . . . they might have saved her life. Some of her peers had known the worst too soon.

  She walked into the cabin. The space had changed over the last couple of days; her mother’s staff had moved boxes of clothing into the antechamber and piled them up against the far bulkhead. The setup was chaotic, Angela thought, although that wasn’t a bad thing. Her mother wouldn’t be inviting many guests over while everything was in disarray. She had an uncle who lived in a messy mansion and never had to worry about unwelcome visitors. Angela rather admired him.

  “Open the cabin,” Marie said. Her lips thinned again. “Please.”

  Angela concealed her amusement. It was petty, but it was power. She nodded and pressed her fingers against the reader, opening the door and striding inside. Marie cleared her throat in annoyance as she saw the mess—Angela had left clothes everywhere when she’d been unpacking her bags—but said nothing.

  “Get undressed,” Marie ordered as she opened a clothes bag. “We don’t have much time.”

  “We have one hour, forty-seven minutes, and twenty-five seconds,” Angela said. She shrugged off her robe, followed by the wisps of costume. “I�
��m sure we have plenty of time.”

  Marie ignored her. “This is a formal dinner, My Lady,” she said. “Do you understand the protocol?”

  “Yeah,” Angela said. “I know precisely what to do.” She sighed. “Why couldn’t it be a dance? Or a masked ball?”

  “Because the captain wishes to welcome his most important guests properly,” Marie said curtly. She walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Her voice echoed back through the door. “There’ll be masked balls later.”

  “They’re on the schedule,” Angela muttered. She liked dancing. She would happily sit through a couple of hours of boring speechifying if she knew there would be dancing afterwards. “But why can’t we dance now?”

  “Because it wouldn’t be proper,” Marie reminded her. She stuck her head out of the bathroom. “Come.”

  Angela groaned. It was going to be a long evening.

  “Stand up straighter,” Senior Steward Falcon said. He paced the compartment, inspecting each of the stewards in turn. “You’re serving the captain and his handpicked guests tonight. I’ll pitch you out the nearest airlock if you make a mistake.”

  Matt kept his face expressionless. Falcon sounded pissed. He was stamping around the deck like a bear with a toothache, snapping and snarling at anyone who wasn’t practically perfect in every way. He’d dragged the evening staff off their regular shifts to drill them remorselessly, then barely gave them a chance to eat before forcing them to get dressed in their serving uniforms. Beside him, Carla was silently fuming. Falcon had told her to tighten her shirt.

  “Do not speak unless spoken to,” Falcon reminded them. Matt couldn’t help thinking that he sounded like a bad impression of a drill sergeant. “Keep your eyes to yourselves . . .”

  “He means you,” Carla muttered quietly.

  Not quietly enough. Falcon swung around to glare at her. “France! What is the correct response to a complaint about the food?”

  Carla straightened. “Abject apologies, followed by an offer to replace the meal with something more suitable,” she said. “And a great deal of groveling.”

  “Right,” Falcon said. His gaze moved to another steward. “Lucas! What is the correct response to a request to have one’s seating assignment changed?”

  “Check with the datanet for free seats; then reassign them,” Lucas said. “And make sure that the files have been updated to reflect the new seating pattern.”

  Matt nodded. The vast majority of the guests were wealthy enough to afford biological enhancement and nanotechnology supports—they probably wouldn’t be allergic to anything on the menu—but there was no accounting for taste. The staff had already worked out the menu, ensuring that everyone received a meal they could and would eat. There would be no surprises, Matt thought, and very little wastage either. That wouldn’t matter—biological waste could be recycled—but it was important. The captain didn’t want people saying that he didn’t offer a good table.

  And the first set of guests are all rich and powerful, he thought. They’ll complain loudly if they can’t eat the food.

  Falcon barked orders. Matt strode forward, stopping in front of the reflective field. An image of himself appeared, wearing a white uniform that made him look a year or two younger. Everything was right, from the jaunty cap to the shoes . . . he even wore white gloves! A stain could seemingly ruin everything, but he knew from experience that the uniforms were designed to resist staining. He could wipe a spill off with a cloth and go straight back to work.

  “It makes your butt look big,” Carla whispered.

  Matt fought the urge to giggle. He thought Falcon was joking about tossing people out the airlock, but the senior steward had plenty of other ways to punish anyone unlucky enough to screw up. And he’d have a point. Falcon would get a share of the blame if someone accidentally splashed soup on a guest, even if he was on the other side of the dining room at the time. Perhaps he’d be tossed out the airlock too.

  “It makes your chest look bigger,” he retorted. “Can you even breathe in that?”

  “Barely,” Carla said. “If I pass out midway through the dinner, remember to drag me out of the room before opening my shirt and performing CPR.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Matt promised. “I’m sure you’ll get lots of tips.”

  “Hah,” Carla said. She tilted her head, inspecting her reflection. “They come with a high price, don’t you know?”

  Falcon cleared his throat loudly. “The dinner will start in thirty minutes,” he said. “We will now proceed to the dining antechamber.”

  “Hurry up and wait,” Carla muttered. “Are you surprised?”

  Matt shook his head. Captain VanGundy had told everyone that dinner would be served at 1700 precisely. He wouldn’t be pleased with delays. There were quite enough logistic problems with feeding forty people at the same time without the staff being late. And the captain’s displeasure would make itself known quickly. Falcon had taken a perverse pleasure in reminding his staff that the captain could order someone dismissed and thrown in the brig until the starship reached the next civilized world, then deposited there. Being a castaway sounded romantic until the reality sank in.

  “No,” he said. “It’s just what I expected.”

  “You look adorable, sir,” Jeanette said.

  Paul gave her a dark look. He’d never liked hosting formal dinners, even when he’d been the captain of a superdreadnought. His fellow commanding officers had made good company, but admirals and reporters hadn’t been quite as tolerable. And yet, they’d been navy or dependent on the navy. They’d had an incentive to behave that Supreme’s guests lacked.

  He glowered at his reflection. His black dress uniform, liberally sprinkled with gilded braid, made him look like an admiral from a tin-pot navy on the other side of the galaxy. The cynic in him wondered if there was enough gold on his jacket to purchase a starship, although he knew that was rather unlikely. He couldn’t help wishing that he’d been allowed to keep his military uniform, which might have impressed some of the guests.

  “You’re meant to be on the bridge,” he said crossly. Jeanette couldn’t host any of the dinner parties, unfortunately. “Unless you want to swap jobs right now . . .”

  Jeanette gave him an angelic smile. “Only if I get to keep the rank afterwards,” she said. “I don’t want to be captain for a day.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Paul said.

  “We’re still getting applications to actually be captain for a day,” Jeanette said. “Quite a few duplicates too. Some girl called Marissa put in a dozen separate applications.”

  Paul resisted the urge to groan. An old tradition of putting an ensign in command of the ship for a day had existed, but the practice hadn’t survived the war. The Royal Navy had too many other things to worry about than maintaining a tradition that most senior officers regarded with a complete lack of enthusiasm. He would have preferred not to even raise the possibility of having a civilian preteen pretend to be a commanding officer . . .

  And there’ll be complaints if we don’t pick a winner, he thought. It’s too late to avoid having the contest altogether.

  He looked at his XO. “Is it just me, or are we expected to be party clowns as well as starship officers?”

  Jeanette shrugged. “Doesn’t the military have its silly moments?”

  “No,” Paul lied. “Well . . . nothing I want to talk about anyway.”

  His XO grinned. “We’re meant to keep the customers happy,” she said. “If that means putting a child in the captain’s chair for a day and pretending to take her seriously . . . well, it’s what we have to do. If there’s a real emergency, we’ll drop the facade and do everything in our power to handle the problem . . . as you know, sir.”

  “Yes,” Paul said. He had faith in his crew. They’d handled a small number of emergencies already, although none of them had been particularly serious. And they’d done well during the simulated emergencies. He hoped they’d never have to face a real eme
rgency. “It just feels odd.”

  “So does half the spit-and-polish we see from you military types, sir,” Jeanette said. “But it makes sense in context.”

  Paul nodded, then took one last look in the mirror. “Time to face the music,” he said. He felt almost as if he were going to his execution. God alone knew what Robert Cavendish and his ilk would want to discuss. “Good luck on the bridge.”

  “So far, we’ve had an uneventful cruise,” she said. “None of the starships we’ve detected have shown any signs of interest in us.”

  “And let’s hope it stays that way,” Paul said. He donned his cap. “Wish me luck.”

  Jeanette smiled. “I can sound an alert at 1730 to get you out of there?”

  Paul considered the option longer than he should have. “No,” he said finally. The offer was tempting but would undermine passenger confidence in his ship and crew. “Just inform me if anything happens that requires my attention.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jeanette said. “Good luck!”

  “Hah,” Paul said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Five minutes into her semi-date with Finley Mackintosh, Angela was already certain that it was going to be a disaster. Not in the sense that he would turn out to be all hands, or that he would monopolize her attention and prevent her from talking to anyone else, but in the sense he was boring. He hadn’t shown a hint of interest in her. His eyes hadn’t even flickered to her chest when he’d first laid eyes on her. Instead, he’d merely bowed and offered her his arm.

  She pasted a faint smile on her face as they walked down the corridor and into the dining room. The corridor itself was open, a transparent canopy allowing passengers to stare out into the flickering lights of hyperspace. Brilliant flashes and flares of energy danced around the starship, a private fireworks display that took her breath away. Angela wanted to stop and watch the lights, to admire the colors no one ever saw outside hyperspace, but Finley gently pulled her onwards. Naturally, the dining room itself was covered. No one could see outside.