The Hyperspace Trap

by Christopher Nuttall

  She looked up as her mother stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. Was she being blamed for some act Nancy had committed? She doubted it. Her sister’s governess was usually good at figuring out when Nancy had done something wrong, but they’d left Suzie on Tyre. Marie might not have realized that Nancy was to blame for some heinous crime. Or maybe her parents were about to give another lecture on proper decorum in public, with her mother there to drive the lesson home.

  “Angela,” her father said, “we have something important to discuss with you.”

  She could feel her heart racing in her chest, pounding. She was surprised the other two couldn’t hear it. Her thoughts ran in all directions, mocking her. She didn’t think she was in trouble, yet . . . yet part of her wondered if that was actually a good thing. This was starting to feel worse than the day she’d accidentally damaged her mother’s prize rosebushes during a particularly noisy game.

  “Yes, Father,” she managed. “I am here.”

  Robert Cavendish cracked a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “You are nineteen,” he said. “You are old enough to sit at the high table and make conversation with the adults.”

  Angela cringed. It was about Finley, then. She’d been right at the end of the table, and there’d been no one else to talk to unless she spoke over Finley. Her father had noticed that they’d barely conversed . . . she gritted her teeth, wondering what form the rebuke would take. They couldn’t bar her from visiting her friends when they were uncounted millions of light-years away.

  Not millions of light-years, her thoughts pointed out. Just one or two, perhaps.

  She fought to keep her face expressionless. On Tyre, she could take an aircar and fly halfway around the world for an afternoon with her friends. God knew she’d done it a few times, although the war had cut down on such little pleasures. On Supreme, she could no more visit her friends than she could fly under her own power. They were all back on Tyre. The only person she knew who was close to her own age was Finley, and he was twenty-four.

  Her father made an irritated sound. Angela flushed. He’d been talking, and she hadn’t been listening.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was light-years away.”

  “I noticed,” her father said. He didn’t sound angry. That worried her. He was definitely distracted by some greater thought. “It is time for you to embrace some of your adult responsibilities.”

  Angela blinked. “Father?”

  “You and Finley will marry,” her father said. “The wedding will be concluded the day before we return to Tyre.”

  For a long moment, Angela honestly couldn’t comprehend what her father had just told her. Marriage? To Finley? To . . .

  “He’s a very decent young man,” her mother said. “He’s intelligent and caring and—”

  Angela found her voice, somehow. “We are talking about Finley Mackintosh, right?”

  “Yes,” her father said. He sounded irked, his eyes darkening in displeasure. “You went to dinner with him, remember?”

  Angela felt a flicker of annoyance—she hated it when people talked down to her—but it was buried under her shock. She was nineteen . . . her parents couldn’t just marry her off, could they? She . . . she swallowed, hard. She’d known other girls who were married off, just to ensure that the aristocracy remained in power, but she’d never thought such an arrangement would happen to her. She’d always assumed that she’d simply inherit her father’s position one day. She would never be the duchess, but she’d have power . . .

  At least you actually know Finley. Her thoughts mocked her. Perhaps she would’ve been more enthusiastic if she didn’t know Finley. There are some boys and girls who meet their partners on the day of the wedding.

  “He’s boring,” she managed. “He’s the most boring man in the world.”

  “He’s intelligent and capable,” her father said crossly. “And he can discourse on a wide range of subjects.”

  Angela made a rude sound. That was a lie. Or . . . perhaps Finley could talk about things that interested her father. She had no idea. Perhaps they chatted happily together about the Norwegian leather industry. Or, more likely, the postwar reconstruction of worlds no one had ever heard of until they’d suddenly become part of the Commonwealth. She had no doubt the old fogies could babble for hours about . . . about anything.

  Finley isn’t that old, a treacherous part of her mind pointed out. He’s only six years older than you.

  “He’s a tedious little man,” Angela insisted. “Father, I don’t want to marry him.”

  “You must,” her mother said.

  Angela rounded on her. “Why?”

  “You must,” her mother snapped. “Angela—”

  “I am not desperate to rise in the world,” Angela snapped back. “I don’t gain anything from marrying Finley!”

  Her mother recoiled as if she’d been slapped. Angela felt a moment of guilt, but she was too angry to care. She wasn’t going to be married off, damn it. If they wanted to kick her out of the family, she’d take her trust fund and go! She wanted . . . she wasn’t sure what she wanted. In hindsight, maybe it had been a mistake to do nothing with her life. She could have joined her cousins in preparing to take over the family business or followed Kat Falcone into the navy . . .

  I did nothing, she thought grimly. My only value lies in breeding stock.

  “That will do,” her father said. He sounded angry. Normally his tone would have been enough to make her submit at once. “You do not talk to your mother like that, young lady.”

  Angela was too angry to care. “And what will you do if I refuse to marry him? Ground me for a million years? Beat me? Kick me out of the cabin or the family or the airlock? Or . . . or what?”

  Her father met her eyes evenly. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he said. His voice was surprisingly calm. “You owe it to the family to marry well.”

  Angela swallowed. She’d expected her father to shout. Instead . . .

  She took a long breath. “I understand that I owe you . . . that I owe the family,” she said. “But I . . . I do not have to marry anyone. I don’t want to marry anyone.”

  “I understand exactly how you feel,” her father said quietly.

  “No, you don’t,” Angela yelled. It was hard, so hard, to try to be calm. “You’re not the one who has to open her legs and let a boring trust-fund brat fuck her in a loveless match!”

  The blatant crudity should have shocked her father. She’d certainly expected the words to make an impact. Instead, he seemed prepared to ignore them.

  “Like I said, I’ll tell you the truth,” her father said. He was still calm. “Do you want to listen?”

  Angela nodded, once.

  “I believed it would be better if you chose for yourself if you wanted to join the family business,” her father said. “My father . . . my father forced me to learn everything, back when he thought I would be the next duke. I didn’t like that life, Angela. I thought that if you were interested, you’d come to me and ask for training. Instead . . .”

  “I did nothing,” Angela said.

  “Yes,” her father agreed. “Perhaps I should have forced you to learn. It would have given you more background information.”

  He paused. “You are dangerously ignorant of many things,” he added. He looked down at the desk for a long, chilling moment. “And one of the things you don’t know is that Cavendish Corporation is in serious trouble.”

  Angela stared at him. “We are?”

  “Yes,” her father said.

  He rose and started to pace. “We contributed a significant sum of money to fund the Commonwealth, back when King Travis was on the throne. I’m not talking about mere billions here. My father felt the investment was worthwhile, as long-term projections indicated that the Commonwealth would be successful. Indeed, we saw a number of those investments start to repay themselves over the last decade.

  “And then there was the war. All of
a sudden, those investments were either frozen or lost completely. The Theocracy destroyed a number of our investments when they occupied worlds along the front lines. Worse, there was a sudden rise in taxation on Tyre, matched with economic disruption caused by the war and terrorist attacks and . . .”

  He laughed, humorlessly. “Building this class of ship might not have been a bright idea,” he said, waving a hand at the bulkhead. “Sure, it’s pocket change . . . but pocket change adds up.”

  Angela couldn’t believe her ears. “Father . . . are we broke?”

  “Not yet,” her father said. “Our best-case projections, assuming that there are no further economic shockwaves, suggest that we might be able to secure ourselves over the next five to ten years. Our worst-case projections suggest we might be looking at complete collapse within the next five years. A lot depends on factors completely beyond our control, Angela. The king’s elaborate reconstruction plan will create new work for us, but it will also put more stress on our finances at the worst possible time.”

  “Oh,” Angela said. She still couldn’t believe her ears, but there was a certainty in her father’s voice that made it impossible to disbelieve him. “The government can’t help?”

  Her father snorted. “Sweetheart, the government is a major part of the problem,” he said sardonically. “And even if politicians wanted to help, they couldn’t. Even trying would bring on the disaster.”

  Angela’s eyes sharpened. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” her father said. “Right now, we’ve covered our weakened position as completely as we can. Very few rumors, nothing credible, have managed to leak out. But . . . if we run into another financial problem, we’re going to be in trouble. Any attempt to rationalize our expenses will probably set off the crisis. Our stockholders will pull out. Entire sub-businesses will collapse or be snapped up by other corporations.”

  He turned to face her. “We’re in a very delicate position, Angela,” he said. “And the slightest wrong move, or even a right one, might be enough to cause a disaster.”

  “I see,” Angela said. She saw no point in trying to debate finance or economics with her father. He’d been playing with both for longer than she’d been alive. “How will Finley marrying me help?”

  “Finley’s family wishes to move up in the world,” her father said. “A match between you and Finley will give them more prestige, something they want desperately. It also gives us access to their coffers, something we want desperately. Merging some of their sub-businesses into ours will give us an infusion of ready cash without raising eyebrows.”

  “Too many eyebrows,” Angela’s mother said.

  Her father nodded. “And, in the long term, Finley will also bring a number of stocks, shares, and other business interests to the combine. The move will help secure our position long enough to adapt to the postwar universe.”

  Angela looked from one parent to the other. “And if I refuse to marry him?”

  “Good question,” her father said. “We won’t kick you out of the family, if that’s what you’re asking. But I don’t know what will happen to the family. None of the Big Twelve have ever gone bankrupt before. If we can’t meet our debts, we’ll be sunk.”

  “. . . Shit,” Angela said.

  She wasn’t sure she believed him when he said he wouldn’t kick her out of the family. Her father had a pronounced streak of ruthlessness, one that had occasionally shocked her in the past. And Finley’s family would have conducted the negotiations with a view to getting all they could from the Cavendishes. They’d demand satisfaction if the marriage never went through. Even if they didn’t know precisely why Angela’s family needed the money, they’d know that something was wrong. The merest hint of a credible rumor might destroy the corporation.

  “Millions of people will be affected,” her father said, quietly. “Some will find work for other corporations; others will find themselves unemployed for far longer. Most of our assets will probably be seized to pay off our debts: the mansions, the penthouses, the estate in the hills . . . your mother’s extensive collection of dresses. If the collapse is limited to just us, it will be bad enough. If it weakens or destroys other corporations, it will be a great deal worse. The entire Commonwealth might be threatened.”

  Angela looked down at the deck. She might not have her father’s experience, but she knew a guilt trip when she heard one. The family itself was at risk. She thought, suddenly, of her cousins, trying to learn the ropes. Did they know about the crisis? Or had it been kept from them? She doubted more than a handful of people knew the full extent of the problem . . .

  “I know this won’t be easy,” her mother said. “It wasn’t easy for me either.”

  “Of course not,” Angela snarled.

  Her mother placed a hand on her shoulder. “You marry him and have two children,” she said softly. “Five years from now, or ten, you decide you want to leave. You have over a century ahead of you. No one will expect you to spend your entire life with the same man.”

  Angela glared. Had her mother faced the same dilemma? What deals had been made, in the dark, before she married Angela’s father? Or was she just the social climber Angela had always taken her to be.

  She didn’t look up. The collapse of an entire corporation would be disastrous. She thought of the gardeners who’d built her a treehouse, of the young servants who kept the mansion running . . . they’d all lose their jobs. She couldn’t even begin to understand what might happen if she refused the match . . .

  Her fists clenched. She had no choice. Her father knew she had no choice. Hot tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. She didn’t know—she had no way to know—if Finley had wanted the match or if he’d been strong-armed into it too. But the union would be easier for him, wouldn’t it? He could just sleep with her a couple of times, then leave her alone. He didn’t have to be a complete asshole to turn their marriage into a farce. The mere act of marrying under such conditions would do that for him.

  And if I don’t marry him, she thought numbly, untold numbers of people will suffer.

  “Fine,” she shouted. She rose. She’d go to her bedroom, then . . . then what? “But don’t expect me to be happy!”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “That was an . . . interesting evening,” Matt said as they stepped into their sleeping quarters. “I don’t know how they put up with the speeches.”

  “It’s astonishing how interesting someone becomes if they have enough money to buy and sell a million people like us,” Carla said. She closed the hatch behind them. “What happened to the others?”

  “They were talking about hitting the mess,” Matt said. He didn’t feel particularly hungry himself. Going to the crew bar would be fun, but right now he needed sleep. “Was Falcon joking when he said there’d be an after-action review?”

  Carla laughed, humorlessly. “No,” she said. “He’ll be telling us what we did wrong all week.”

  “Oh dear,” Matt said. “Nothing actually went wrong, did it?”

  “No,” Carla said. “They would have heard the shouting at the other end of the ship if something had gone awry.”

  Matt sat down on the bunk. “I made seven hundred in tips,” he said, checking his credit balance. Some of that would go to the general fund, he knew, but the remainder was his to keep, untaxed. “How about you?”

  “Two thousand,” Carla said. Her face turned sour. “Trust me, I earned it.” Her voice was grim.

  Matt looked up. “What happened?”

  “Oh, all the usual things that happen when rich elderly men and women see a pretty young girl serving their table,” Carla said. “Don’t you get your ass squeezed from time to time?”

  Matt flushed. “Not on duty.”

  “Just you wait,” Carla said. She smirked, her lips curving into a cruel smile. “Some of those really old women will try to drag you into their cabins, if you’re not careful. Maybe some of the middle-aged men and women too.”

  “You make it sound l
ike a bad thing,” Matt protested.

  Carla laughed, harshly. “I dare you to tell Falcon that you were late for morning briefing because some elderly cougar lured you into her bed and kept you up all night,” she said. “I assure you he won’t like it.”

  “Probably not,” Matt agreed. The idea sounded amusing, but he knew it had its darker side. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve been better,” Carla said. She shot him a sidelong glance. “You spent half the evening staring at Angela, by the way. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

  Matt blushed furiously. “Did anyone else notice?”

  “I don’t know,” Carla said. “But I suggest you keep your eyes to yourself.”

  “She didn’t look as if she was enjoying herself,” Matt said. A thought struck him. “Is her sister really the first child to be born in hyperspace?”

  Carla shot him a mischievous look. “If you say otherwise, I dare say Mr. Cavendish’s lawyers will want a word with you,” she said. “They made quite a big deal out of it at the time.”

  “I didn’t notice,” Matt said. How old would he have been, back then? Seven? Eight? He made a mental note to look the story up, when he had the time. “Angela didn’t seem impressed.”

  “I imagine she wouldn’t be,” Carla said. “How many bad movies have started with an older child being jealous of a younger sibling’s fame?” She elbowed him. “Go get a shower; then get into your bunk,” she said firmly. “Mornings always come too soon.”

  “Yes, My Lady,” Matt said.

  Carla gave him the finger as he stripped off his uniform, carefully hanging it in the locker to be cleaned. The staff would pick the clothing up to wash the following morning. He couldn’t help feeling a stab of relief as he stood naked in front of the mirror. The uniform was tight in all the wrong places. Perhaps he should have been surprised that no one had tried to grab his ass. He knew that some of the male guests swung both ways.