He stumbled into the shower and bathed, hastily. Carla was right. Falcon had told the evening staff that they could stay in their bunks until 1000, but that would give him only seven hours of sleep at best. The others would be coming back soon too. He was used to sleeping in the wardroom now, despite the complete lack of privacy, but it was still easy to jerk awake at the slightest noise. His instructors had told him that was a good thing.
Bastards, he thought as he finished showering. They just wanted to make sure that none of us had a good night’s sleep.
Carla was undressing when he walked back into the cabin, removing her uniform piece by piece. Matt forced himself to look away. His cock twitched, and he dived into his bunk. He was too tired to hide anything from his bunkmate, and yet . . .
He turned his gaze to follow her as she walked to the shower. Her rear was as perfect as the rest of her, drawing his eyes to her bare legs, yet . . . there was a nasty bruise on her right buttock. Had someone pinched her hard enough to leave a mark? Matt shivered, torn between anger and a sour realization that there was no point in complaining. Corporate might believe Carla if she filed a complaint, but they wouldn’t do anything about it. The customer was always right. They might even retaliate against Carla if she made too much of a fuss.
Matt leaned back in his bunk, trying to think. There’d been forty guests in the dining compartment, half of whom were men. But it didn’t have to be a man, did it? Carla had pointed out that women could be predators too. Who had it been? He wanted to know, even though cold logic told him that it would be pointless. He couldn’t do anything about it.
Poison the bastard, the vindictive part of his mind suggested. Or shove him out the nearest airlock.
He shook his head in frustration. The entire ship was monitored. Security would track down a murderer in record time, unless . . . he’d seen movies where the security net was compromised, but he didn’t have the faintest idea how to begin. Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure he could get his hands on poison or open an airlock from the inside. He’d need security codes he didn’t have. No, murder wasn’t an option. The whole thing was a pointless revenge fantasy.
Carla stepped back into the cabin. Matt looked away, hastily.
“Good night,” he said.
“I’ll kick you out of bed at 1000,” Carla said. She sounded like her old self again, no hint of disquiet. “You’re back on casino duty tomorrow afternoon.”
“Joy,” Matt said.
“All systems remain nominal,” Jeanette said as Paul stepped onto the bridge. “I’ve ordered a slight course change to avoid a prospective energy storm, but we should still make our destination within the time window.”
Paul studied the display. The energy flickers might turn into a storm, or they might just fade back into the background, but there was no point in taking chances. A superdreadnought wouldn’t have a hope if it got caught up in an energy storm. Supreme’s defenses were good, but still flimsy by comparison. Better to be late, even pushing the edge of their destination window, than try to skirt the edge of a storm.
“Very good,” he said.
He smiled to himself, thinly. It was one of the things natural-born groundpounders would never understand. Space travel held a hint of unpredictability, even hundreds of years after the first starships had traveled into hyperspace. He’d love to be able to promise that Supreme would reach her destination on a specific date and time, but he knew better. The universe was rarely so obliging.
“Thank you, sir,” Jeanette said. She glanced at her terminal. “There was a minor incident on D Deck, a rowdy party that got a little out of hand. Security cleared up the mess.”
“Glad to hear it,” Paul said. “Is it likely to cause long-term problems?”
“I don’t believe so,” Jeanette said. “It sounds like a leaving party that turned into a drunken riot. No significant injuries or damage, just a handful of frightened people. I don’t see any need to drop a hammer on them.”
Paul pursed his lips. He was far too used to military discipline. Crewmen caught fighting could expect to spend the next few weeks on punishment duties, even if they weren’t formally disciplined. Hell, most of them would probably prefer an informal punishment rather than anything else. Spending the week cleaning the shuttlebay was better than a black mark on one’s record. But he doubted a civilian would see it that way.
“I’ll read the full report in the morning,” he said. Someone would second-guess him, of course. Someone always did. “But as long as no one was seriously hurt, I dare say there’s no need to take sterner measures.”
“Yes, sir,” Jeanette said. She smiled. “They were just letting off steam.”
“I can’t put that in my report,” Paul said. He’d thought military bureaucrats were bad when it came to demanding that everything be reported, then filed in triplicate. Corporate was even worse. “But guests will be guests.”
He looked at the display. Supreme hung in the center, escorted by the two destroyers. He considered, briefly, asking their captains to dinner. The request was within his purview, and it would be good for civil-military relationships. But he didn’t want to take the captains off their command decks with the possibility they’d be attacked. Pirates might be shadowing Supreme even now.
And that’s another problem with commanding a cruise liner, he thought. I can’t afford to ignore any sensor contact.
“Hand the bridge over to your relief when the time comes,” he said. “And make sure you get some sleep.”
“Yes, sir,” Jeanette said.
Paul nodded curtly. Leaving didn’t please him. He wanted to spend more time on the bridge, but he had no choice. He was expected to spend time with the wealthy passengers when he wasn’t actually sleeping . . . He’d heard that some corporate installations had building managers and business managers. Corporate might see the sense in appointing a guest captain as well as a starship captain. But if he wasn’t careful, he might wind up with the wrong job.
“I’ll be in my quarters,” he said.
He turned and strode off the bridge. The corridor lights were dimmed, a droll, unnatural reminder that it was shipboard night. The dull lighting sent warning shivers down his spine. Military warships didn’t pay more than lip service to shipboard night, whatever the hour. The gamma and delta crews couldn’t afford to start thinking that they should be asleep when they were on duty. They never dimmed the lights outside crew quarters.
It felt weirdly off as he walked down to his cabin hatch. Supreme was sleeping, with most of her passengers in their beds. Some guests would be up all night drinking, he was sure, but the remainder would be asleep. The hospitality crews would be asleep too. There was something eerie about the missing background noise . . . even the dull thrumming of the drive was gone. He couldn’t help feeling a flicker of disapproval. He’d been taught that hearing the drives was a good thing.
The passengers disagree, he thought. Corporate had drilled that lesson into his head, along with a number of others. And the passengers are always right.
He opened his hatch and stepped inside. The steward had already cleaned the compartment, made the bed, and refreshed the coffeepot. He wasn’t sure he liked that either, although he had retained a steward when he’d been in the navy. The only thing missing was the prelaid breakfast . . . but then, he was supposed to take his breakfast in the dining room. No doubt the passengers would complain loudly if he didn’t eat with them.
Eating with the captain is part of the attraction.
Paul undressed quickly, then checked his terminal. Security’s preliminary report on the fight was already waiting for him but contained few details. Paul suspected that any future investigations would be perfunctory. No one had been seriously hurt, the ship hadn’t been damaged . . . and besides, the passengers were always right. As long as they didn’t do anything Paul had to take official notice of, he was supposed to turn a blind eye.
I miss the navy, he thought as he walked into his bedroom and climb
ed into bed. Things were so much more understandable there.
He closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly.
Angela couldn’t sleep. Her thoughts were churning.
She’d never thought she’d get married, not really. She was nineteen . . . even her mother had been in her early thirties when she’d married. There was certainly no hurry to wed and start having children. Her fertility cycle had been frozen, thanks to the wonders of modern medical technology. She didn’t have to get married quickly to have babies, let alone do anything else.
But now she had to get married . . .
Her mind spun as she tried to process everything she’d been told. It was impossible to believe, truly believe, that the family corporation was in dire straits. And yet . . . she was sure, somehow, that her father wasn’t lying. He wouldn’t seek to marry her off to someone below her, certainly someone who didn’t have a hell of a lot of talent, unless he was desperate.
The thought made her cringe. She just didn’t like Finley. She certainly didn’t want to bear his children! And tradition dictated she had to bear his children. They couldn’t use an exowomb or a surrogate mother . . . their children had to be hers. She damned the tradition as savagely as she could, using words she knew Marie would have told her off for saying.
She leaned back in her bed, trying to think. She couldn’t just leave. She didn’t know if her father could or would cut her off from her trust fund, but the fund itself might not survive if the corporation crashed. If she’d thought to learn . . . she cursed herself too, just as savagely. She didn’t know enough to check her father’s words . . . she had no way to ascertain for herself if he was right. In hindsight, she should have forced herself to study as if her life depended on it.
My life did depend on it, she thought.
She fought down an insane urge to giggle. She’d watched period romances with her girlfriends—when men were men, women were women, and children were either bratty as hell or impossibly pure—and she’d never understood them. Everyone seemed to be bound into their roles, even the children. The men and women had acted foolishly because they never seemed to think! And yet . . . she understood them now. They’d been bound by invisible chains of duty and honor and obligation, just like her. The only real difference was that she’d never realized she was chained as well until it was too late.
Her fists clenched. She hadn’t been born to a world that limited her because of her sex. There had been all kinds of opportunities, if she’d chosen to take them. She could have studied and joined the corporation; her name would have ensured her rise if she’d had a smidgeon of talent. Or she could have joined the navy or a trading ship or . . . instead, she’d just stayed where she was. And now she was trapped.
She closed her eyes, trying to summon the merest hint of feelings for Finley. She’d started experimenting with boys, and girls, almost as soon as she’d come of age. She had experimented in a way she was sure would shock her parents, if they knew . . . and yet, she couldn’t imagine sleeping with Finley.
Fuck it, she thought. Her eyes snapped open. What the hell do I do?
Angela cursed again. There was no one she could ask for advice. No one who might help her. No one who might . . . do what? Fight her father? Give him a way out that didn’t include bartering away his daughter’s life?
And now I’m trapped. There was no way off the cruise ship, at least until it stopped at Williamson’s World. And then . . . she wasn’t even sure if she’d have access to her trust fund there. What do I do now?
Slowly, bitterly, she drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“You look like hell,” Nancy said when Angela staggered out of her cabin. “What were you and Finley doing all night?”
Angela glared at her, trying to push all her fury and fear into her expression. Her sister stumbled backward, her eyes going wide with shock. Angela knew she should feel ashamed for frightening the younger girl, but right now all she felt was envy. Nancy wouldn’t be old enough to marry for at least another six years. She’d have ample time to carve out a career for herself, or something, if she wished.
“I just asked,” Nancy managed. She tried to peep into the cabin. “Is he still there?”
“Shut up,” Angela growled. If their mother heard Nancy talking like that, they’d both be in big trouble. “You—”
“Ah, Angela,” Marie’s voice said. Angela turned just in time to see her governess emerge from the rear chamber. “Your mother requests the pleasure of your company in her private dining room.”
“Oh,” Angela said. “And what if there isn’t any pleasure to be had in my company?”
Marie eyed her disapprovingly. Angela had to smile. She’d changed into a nightgown that was practically translucent, but she hadn’t bothered to wash her face or fix her hair. Her makeup was smeared. Her cosmetic scales were damaged, and she looked like a witch. She wondered, absently, just what the first boy she’d dated would make of her. Would her nightgown make up for her ghastly face?
Maybe Finley will take one look and run away, screaming, she thought. A giggle slipped from her lips. That might get me out of this nightmare.
“Go wash your face and put on a robe,” Marie ordered. “And then inject yourself with a detoxicant. You probably had just a little too much to drink last night.”
“More than just a little,” Nancy put in. “You were quaffing wine like it was—”
“Be quiet, you little brat,” Angela snarled. “Please.”
She turned and stalked into her bedroom, silently daring Marie to follow her. Maybe Nancy would distract the governess long enough to let Angela clean herself up in peace. The last thing she wanted, right now, was a lecture on The Proper Behavior of a Young Lady in Polite Society or something even more tedious. She’d had a nasty shock last night, and she doubted it would get any better in a hurry. What if . . . she sighed, gritting her teeth as she glared at herself in the mirror. It was a minor miracle that the glass didn’t shatter instantly.
Perhaps I should just take one of those prank sweets before bed, she thought. Finley won’t want to kiss me if my lips taste like shit.
She dismissed the thought, angrily, as she wiped her face clean. There was nothing to be gained from laying on the makeup with a trowel, not now. Maybe she’d fix her face later, before she went out . . . or maybe she wouldn’t bother.
She glared down at the telltale on her wrist, then donned a robe and hurried outside. Nancy was gone, unsurprisingly. Marie was waiting, impatient. Angela glowered at her—the governess stared back evenly—and then turned to the door. Marie walked behind her all the way to Halle Cavendish’s private dining room as if she expected Angela to run. The thought would have made Angela laugh if it hadn’t been so serious. Where the hell was she expected to go?
“Angela,” her mother said as Angela paused at the door. “Come on in.”
She braced herself and walked inside. Her mother was sitting, a tiered cake table in front of her loaded with brightly colored cakes and macaroons. The breakfast threatened to make Angela’s stomach churn. She would have loved it when she’d been a child, she thought, but now . . .
She took the seat facing her mother and forced herself to relax. One of the servants filled her cup with coffee, then withdrew. They were alone in the room.
“You should try a piece of Battenberg,” her mother said, holding out a piece of tennis cake. “It’s really very good.”
Angela rolled her eyes, then took a cupcake. Knowing her mother, each individual cake had probably cost enough to feed an entire family for a week. She wouldn’t have thought about such details normally, but now . . . if the family was hurting for cash, why were they wasting money on fancy cakes? She was sure the money could have fed them all for months.
Because we have to maintain standards, her thoughts reminded her. She’d once known a boy who’d brought tons of cheap chocolate to a party. Everyone had laughed at him, then gorged themselves silly. If we don’t look rich, people might sta
rt to wonder.
“I don’t feel like eating,” Angela said instead. She took a sip of her coffee, grimacing at the taste. “Mother . . .”
“Sugar is good for you,” her mother said. She held up her cup and smiled. “It cheers you up.”
“I don’t think sugar will make me feel any better,” Angela snapped. “Mother . . . I’m going to marry a total fool because the family demands it of me. What more do you want?”
Her mother put down her cup. “To help,” she said. “We are both in this together.”
Angela felt her temper fray. “The only thing you could do to help is murder Finley!”
“This isn’t his fault,” her mother said. “And his death would not save us one little bit.”
“Of course not,” Angela snarled.
Her mother’s lips thinned until they were almost invisible. Angela sighed, then braced herself for the lecture. She had a duty to the family . . . blah, blah, blah . . . and she was expected to uphold that duty because it was the price she paid for being part of the family. She’d heard the lecture before, several times.
“We are both women,” her mother said instead. “And I do want to help you.”
Angela blinked in surprise. “Did you . . . did you get pushed into marrying Father?”
“Yes,” her mother said. “Your grandfather and my father arranged it. Agreements were made behind the scenes. I wasn’t told I would be marrying your father until it had been arranged.”
“Oh,” Angela said. “And you just went along with it?”
Her mother held up a hand. “Just listen,” she said. “Your father knew that he would be getting married, but he didn’t make the choice. I’m not sure just how much influence he would have had, if push came to shove. Your grandfather was very set in his ways.”
Angela rolled her eyes. The aristocratic world was divided into those who had influence and power and those who didn’t. She found it impossible to imagine Robert Cavendish as a powerless young man . . . he’d never been young to her. How could he have been at the mercy of his own father?
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