The Hyperspace Trap

by Christopher Nuttall

  Of course not, she thought as a white-garbed steward led her to their table. We wouldn’t want to distract people from the blather.

  Her eyes swept the compartment as more and more people were seated. Their table was slightly raised, allowing her to look down on the rest of the compartment. She couldn’t help wondering, as she watched the room fill, just how many noses would be put out of joint. She’d seen feuds start because the wrong people were seated together.

  Or because two society bitches were wearing the same dress from very exclusive designers, she thought. That had been amusing, although her mother had not agreed. They were tearing each other apart in public.

  She tried hard not to be bored, but it wasn’t easy. Finley wasn’t talking to her . . . or anything. He was just sitting there, quietly. No wry remarks, no flirting or teasing . . . she was tempted to believe that he didn’t even know she was there. She wondered, absently, what he’d do if she pulled down her dress, then squelched the thought. Finley’s opinion didn’t matter. It was her father who would go ballistic if she embarrassed the family so badly.

  I should be sitting next to Nancy, she thought. At least I’d have someone to talk to.

  She groaned to herself. Her younger sister was at the lowest table, chatting to a boy who looked a year or two older. He looked bored already. Angela felt a stab of pity, mingled with a certain understanding. She’d hated going to dinners when she’d been twelve. Sitting still for three hours while the grown-ups babbled about nonsense was awful, particularly when she wanted to run and play. It was no place for a child.

  And she’s the youngest person here, Angela thought. She rather suspected that she and Finley were the next youngest. Would Nancy have even been invited to the dinner if she hadn’t been famous? That poor boy might have been ordered to escort her too.

  A steward poured her a glass of wine. Angela eyed the drink lovingly, but she knew better than to touch it until everyone was served. Her parents entered the room, her mother giving Angela a bright smile as they took their seats on either side of the captain’s chair. The captain himself entered a moment later, wearing a black jacket covered in braid. Angela couldn’t help thinking that he looked uncomfortable. She didn’t blame him. Formal dinner parties were always the worst.

  We could have pushed the tables against the walls and turned the compartment into a dance floor, she thought. And then had a buffet rather than table service.

  The captain tapped his knife against his glass. Angela turned, silently cursing under her breath. Being at the high table was supposed to be prestigious, but the placement also made it impossible to avoid paying attention. Everyone would notice if she shunned the captain, no matter how boring his speech was. Her father would be annoyed. He’d be annoyed even if he agreed that the speech was boring.

  “There was a time,” the captain said, “when interstellar travel was dangerous . . .”

  Angela managed to keep a look of polite attention on her face, somehow. Whoever had written the captain’s speech wasn’t very good. A combination of mindless platitudes and unsubtle references to the immense cost of building such a cruise liner . . . she’d heard better speeches from her friends who intended to go into politics. But then, the captain did have a captive audience. He could drone for hours if he wished.

  It felt like hours before the speech finally came to an end. “We have many special guests on this ship,” the captain concluded. “But I ask you all to raise your glasses to one in particular: Nancy Cavendish, the first child to be born in hyperspace.”

  Angela raised her glass, torn between sympathy for her sister, who looked as though she wanted to drop dead on the spot, and the old irritation. Nancy was the first child to be born in hyperspace . . . big deal! Hell, Angela wasn’t even sure that Nancy was the first . . . it wasn’t as if she’d been born when humanity had learned how to open gateways and begin to explore hyperspace. Quite possibly there had been other births . . .

  Nancy was definitely the first to be born on one of our ships, she thought. Normally, pregnant women would spend the trip in stasis. Mother insisted on staying out of the pods.

  She glanced at Finley. “Do your siblings have any undeserved claims to fame?”

  Finley looked back at her. “No.”

  Angela sighed. She’d been right. It was going to be a very long evening.

  Matt took the plate, then carried it into the dining room. He could feel hundreds of eyes on him as he walked to the high table and carefully placed the plate in front of the captain, then walked back to the entrance. Carla and the others were carrying plates themselves, executing a choreographed dance designed to get as many plates out as quickly as possible. The guests wouldn’t want to wait for their food.

  They should have set up a buffet, he thought, as he picked up another plate, checked the tag, and carried it into the compartment. That would be quicker.

  He placed the plate in front of Nancy Cavendish, who winked at him. Matt resisted the urge to wink back, knowing that someone would spot him. The entire dinner was being recorded for posterity, although he had no idea who would be interested. Corporate wouldn’t allow the footage to leak out without permission from everyone at the dinner . . .

  Carla passed him, her face expressionless. Matt noticed a number of hungry eyes, male and female, following her as she walked back to the door. It was odd. The women at the tables looked like butterflies, wearing fine clothes that revealed too much flesh for anyone’s peace of mind, but the guests were staring at Carla or him instead of their peers? He could feel eyes watching him as he returned to the antechamber. The next set of plates was already waiting for them.

  “The cheese is very good,” Robert Cavendish said. “Highlands cheese, I believe. From Hebrides?”

  “Yes, My Lord,” Paul said. Thankfully, Jeanette had insisted that he read up on the food. “It was purchased five years ago and kept in storage.”

  “A good thing too,” James Tasman said. He wasn’t nearly as wealthy as Robert Cavendish, but was rich enough to buy himself a stateroom on Gold Deck. “There won’t be any more like it.”

  “No, My Lord,” Paul said. He gritted his teeth. Hebrides had been nuked, the surviving population largely evacuated, the world itself utterly beyond repair . . . and Tasman was moaning about a lack of cheese? “This may be the last surviving batch.”

  “One would imagine that they could set up cheese farms on their new homeworlds,” Cavendish said. “It would bring in additional funds, I suppose.”

  Paul resisted the urge to shrug. It wasn’t his place to point out that selling cheese, even the most expensive cheese in the galaxy, wasn’t going to bring in enough money to terraform Hebrides. The planet was a radioactive wasteland. He doubted the refugees were going to find settling another world easy, no matter where they went. They’d either quickly lose their culture or find themselves resented by the locals. Either way, something would be lost.

  Cavendish cleared his throat. “The king is talking about doubling the military budget,” he said slowly. “Is that reasonable?”

  “Perhaps,” Paul said. “It would depend on what they spent the money on.”

  “It’s not,” Tasman said. He took another bite of his cheese. “The war is over. Building up the military is just another excuse to keep war-level taxation in place.”

  “Perhaps,” Cavendish repeated. He ignored Tasman with a thoroughness Paul could only admire. “Can you elaborate?”

  Paul tried to keep his face impassive. Both military and corporate worlds had superior officers who liked hearing things that confirmed what they already believed, or, for that matter, hearing what they wanted to hear. He did have an opinion, he could offer it . . . but he had no idea what Cavendish wanted to hear. Would he be penalized for telling the truth? Or . . . or what?

  “The Theocracy isn’t a threat any longer,” Paul said. There were a handful of rogue starships, according to the latest set of updates, but they would be hunted down and destroyed eventually. �
��Right now, we don’t face any other serious threats. The other galactic powers aren’t interested in confronting us.”

  “That’s because we kicked the Theocracy’s ass,” Tasman said.

  “Yes, sir,” Paul said. He held up a hand to make his point. “Right now, we have two problems. On one hand, we have to patrol the spacelanes throughout Commonwealth and Theocratic space. That requires a considerable number of smaller units, with larger capital ships held in reserve. On the other hand, we have to maintain a powerful deterrent to ensure that none of the other galactic powers start considering a smash-and-grab of their own.”

  “You just said that the other galactic powers aren’t interested in confronting us,” Tasman said.

  “No, because we can defend ourselves,” Paul pointed out. “If that changes, if one of them thinks they have a decisive military advantage, they might be tempted to try something. They may well feel that the inner powers are trapped, hemmed in by the outer powers. It would tempt them to go for us.”

  Cavendish looked like he’d bitten into a lemon. “You think that they would?”

  “Weakness invites attack,” Paul said. “Human history teaches us that much, at least.”

  “It’s also expensive,” Tasman said. “The money lavished on the military could go elsewhere.”

  “Except then you look both wealthy and weak, an irresistible combination,” Paul countered dryly. “Having a strong military is like buying insurance. If you never need it, you’ve wasted all that money; if you do need it, you’ll really need it.”

  “Good point,” Cavendish said. “I thank you, Captain.”

  “But what are the odds of being attacked?” Tasman asked. “You have a cold view of the universe, Captain.”

  “I do,” Paul agreed. “The universe does not bend to wishful thinking.”

  Cavendish chuckled. “And sometimes you have to make the hard decisions,” he said. He smiled. “Do you think the king’s reconstruction program is a good idea?”

  “I don’t know enough to offer a comment,” Paul said. “But it might be cheaper than clearing up the mess afterwards, if the postwar universe collapses into chaos.”

  “If,” Tasman said.

  “If,” Paul agreed.

  The cheese, Angela decided, was expensive rather than tasty. Muttered comments about it being the last of its kind didn’t help. The next two plates of food, lamb pieces and something she couldn’t identify, weren’t much better. She understood how important it was to show off one’s wealth, but merely booking a Gold Deck stateroom would do that. Why not have some decent food?

  Finley nudged her gently. “What do you do all day?”

  Angela blinked in surprise. That was his first question? He hadn’t said anything to her since the food had arrived . . . did that mean he was trying to make conversation? Or was he just awkwardly plodding his way through the dinner? Perhaps he was bored too.

  “Not much,” she said. It struck her, suddenly, that her reply was literally true. She didn’t do much all day. “I was at the beach this morning . . .”

  Finley’s eyes raised. “A beach?”

  “Yeah,” Angela said. A sudden sense of wickedness made her lean forward and whisper in his ear, “And guess how much I was wearing?”

  She wasn’t sure what sort of reaction she’d expected, but she saw nothing. She’d known boys who would have blushed; boys who would have told her what they thought she should have been wearing; and boys who would have told her, in great detail, precisely what they’d like to do with her when they were alone. But Finley showed no reaction at all. Perhaps he just wasn’t interested in her—or women in general. Or perhaps he simply didn’t like her.

  Father arranged this date, she thought, feeling a flicker of sympathy. Finley might not have wanted the date. He didn’t ask me out on his own.

  “A beach,” Finley repeated. “What else do you do all day?”

  “Back home, I have a social life,” Angela said. It was true, although her social circle had been starting to come apart. All of her friends were marrying or taking up positions in the corporate hierarchy. “I go to parties, I shop, I . . .”

  She sighed. She knew she was lucky, insanely lucky. Her trust fund would keep her solvent for her entire life, unless she tried to purchase her own starship or mansion. She would never have to work, never have to do anything. And yet, her life was empty. Angela had no challenges, nothing to overcome . . . just an endless cycle of pleasure. What was she worth, really? Would she grow into someone as vapid as her mother? Or eventually go off the rails and self-destruct in a manner that couldn’t be covered up?

  “I don’t know,” she said. She looked at him. “What do you do all day?”

  “Father trained me to manage his business accounts,” Finley said. “I will take over when he retires. Your father has offered additional training.”

  “How nice,” Angela said. She doubted the gesture was free. Her father rarely did anything out of the goodness of his heart. “I hope you have a nice time.”

  Finley, for the first time, smiled. “I hope so too.”

  Angela looked up as another steward approached, carrying yet another plate. A piece of pie. She wondered, suddenly, what it would be like to work as a steward. Or anything, really. Did they feel accomplished? Or were they too desperate to save money to care about what they actually did?

  And now we’re starting dessert, she thought sourly. Another three hours to go.

  “Your girlfriend is at the high table,” Carla said as they waited to go back into the dining room. “That guy she’s next to looks constipated.”

  “It must be the food,” Matt said. Angela glowed like an angel—the white dress made her look like a bride on her wedding day—but Finley Mackintosh seemed to be a weakling, the kind of young man who would be mercilessly bullied at school and grow up into a colorless accountant. “There isn’t enough fiber in their diet.”

  Carla shot him a warning glance. “Be careful you don’t say that too loudly,” she said. “You never know who might be listening.”

  Matt nodded reluctantly. Angela wasn’t the only beautiful woman in the dining room, but there was still something about her that drew his eye. He’d thought too much about her over the last few days. It was silly, it was stupid, it was dangerous . . . and yet he was doing it anyway. It was enough to make him wonder why he didn’t use one of the VR chambers or the brothel. The stewards were allowed to use them if they weren’t already reserved.

  “Yeah.” Matt glanced back. Falcon was issuing orders, pointing to the final set of plates. He suspected that Angela would be relieved when the evening finally came to an end. “Do you think they’ll tip us?”

  Carla gave him an exaggerated shrug. “The rich tend to give better tips, when they think to do it, but the poorer guests tend to be more consistent about giving.”

  “Oh,” Matt said. “Is that why Jonny and Kate were so pleased to be assigned to Silver Deck?”

  “A gamble,” Carla said. “Will they take more tips, but less money? Or not?” She smiled. “There are men out there who could buy a whole starship with pocket change.”

  Matt believed her. He’d looked up the figures. Robert Cavendish wasn’t the only person on the ship so wealthy that anyone who wanted to talk about it needed to resort to imaginary numbers. If Carla was aiming for a rich husband, she could hardly do better for a hunting ground. But would she find happiness or a ball and chain? She was no more the social equal of any of the guests than Matt himself.

  Or maybe I’m overthinking it, he thought as he hurried to pick up the next plate. Carla had always struck him as sensible. She might just want to finish this cruise with as little trouble as possible.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The “date” hadn’t been entirely a disaster, Angela decided as she walked into the antechamber, but it could have been a great deal better.

  She snorted at the thought. Finley had gallantly offered to walk her around the promenade after dinner, and she�
�d agreed, reluctant to risk her father’s displeasure by ending the date so soon. And yet, it had been boring, tedious beyond words. Finley talked more when they were alone, but his conversation was as boring as everything else. There were only so many times that he could talk approvingly about pieces of expensive—and overpriced—artwork before she wanted to scream.

  She didn’t have any feelings for him, positive or negative. Even the dull resentment that she’d been forced to waste an evening was more aimed at her father than her fake date. He probably found me as boring as I found him.

  She looked up as she heard someone clearing his throat. “Angela,” her father said. He was sitting on the sofa, reading a datapad. “If you’ll come with me . . . ?”

  Angela felt a chill running down her spine as her father rose and led the way into his private office. As she’d expected, it had been remodeled into something very similar to the office he had in the mansion, right down to the secure cabinets and a large wooden desk. The only things missing were the bookshelves and their contents. She’d always believed her father never actually read the books.

  “Please, take a seat,” he said. “Your mother will be joining us in a minute.”

  Angela’s mouth felt dry as she sat on the comfortable chair. She was rarely allowed in her father’s office, and the only times she’d been summoned had been when she had perpetrated a crime so awful that her last governess had marched her to Robert Cavendish rather than tell her off personally. Angela had never really had the sense that her father actually cared what she did—he’d always seemed simply annoyed that he’d been interrupted—but she’d never enjoyed his lectures. They’d always ended with her in tears, promising to be better.

  Her mind raced. What had she done wrong?

  She’d managed to keep her room private, but her parents had days to lecture her for that. She’d gone on the damned date with Finley, hadn’t she? Maybe she hadn’t hidden her true feelings as well as she’d thought, and her father was about to yell at her for looking bored in public. It was all his fault, damn it. She had no idea what he’d been discussing with the captain, but . . . she was sure it had been more interesting than Finley’s toneless babblings.