The Hyperspace Trap

by Christopher Nuttall

  “No, we can’t,” she snapped, allowing her anger to show. She wanted to get undressed and into bed. She’d have a bath tomorrow, before disembarking. “Get to the point!”

  Finley looked bemused. “The point?”

  “You insisted on talking to me,” Angela said. She didn’t bother to calm her voice. “What. Do. You. Want?”

  “You will comport yourself with the very highest decorum,” Finley said. He sounded as though he was laying down the law. “I want you to remember that you are going to marry me.”

  Angela controlled her anger with an effort. The only person who’d ever talked to her like that was her father, and only when he was in a particularly foul mood. She’d never liked his tone on those occasions, although honesty compelled her to admit there were times when she’d deserved it.

  “I know that,” she snapped. “What’s your point?”

  She saw a hint of anger on his face. “You will remain with me when we go to dances,” he said. “You will not do anything to call our marriage into question.”

  Angela leaned forward. “I won’t, will I?”

  “No, you won’t,” Finley said. “You will stay with me. You will not dance with strangers or—”

  “I am not your slave,” Angela hissed. “I am not some . . . some woman from a historical fantasy! You do not own me!”

  “We have to get married for the good of the family, both families,” Finley snapped back. He sounded angry himself. Part of her mind noted that it was the first time he’d showed any sign of strong emotion. “I will not let you threaten it!”

  “Me dancing with one man or ten men or a hundred men will not threaten my family,” Angela said. “And it won’t threaten yours either.”

  “Regardless, you will behave yourself,” Finley said. “I expect you to remain with me at all times.”

  “Oh,” Angela said. “Would you like me to call you Lord and Master too?”

  Finley flushed. “No.”

  “Oh, goody,” Angela mocked.

  “You will remain with me,” Finley said. “I expect you to—”

  “Then dance with me,” Angela said, cutting him off. “Come onto the dance floor and dance!”

  “I can’t do that,” Finley said.

  Angela rolled her eyes in a manner that often annoyed Marie. She knew there were some boys and girls who were nervous when they stepped onto the dance floor, but they usually got over it. Wallflowers didn’t last long in high society. Finley was certainly young enough to still be a wallflower, particularly if he’d spent his adolescence preparing to take over the family business, but . . .

  She sighed, inwardly. He was just being silly.

  “Then I can’t stay with you,” Angela said. She schooled her voice into something resembling a reasonable tone. “Finley, our marriage will not be threatened by me dancing with other men.”

  “We’re going to be together for a long time,” Finley said. “It will.”

  “Then dance with me,” Angela said. “It isn’t that hard to pick up the basics.”

  Finley gave her a sharp look. “Do you have any idea at all just how much is riding on this match?”

  “Yes,” Angela snapped.

  “Then I’m sure you can understand why it is important that this match doesn’t fail,” Finley said, coldly. “You will comport yourself as I say.”

  Angela’s temper flared. No one had ever tried to dictate to her like that before, not even her father. How dare he? Married or not, she wasn’t his property. They’d have two children, as per the contract, then forge separate lives. She didn’t give a damn if he wanted to bring home a score of lovers or waste his days in the office. And she didn’t care if he felt otherwise.

  “No,” she said flatly.

  “Yes,” Finley said.

  “Get out,” Angela said. She jabbed a finger at the outer door. “Now!”

  Finley rose. “I meant it,” he said. “Too much is at stake for you to act badly.”

  Angela fought down an insane urge to giggle despite her growing rage. He wasn’t concerned about her; he wasn’t jealous . . . he was concerned about the family corporations. He . . .

  “Out,” she said.

  Finley looked down at her for a long moment, and then he turned and walked through the hatch, into the corridor. Angela jumped up and bolted the hatch closed as soon as he was gone, even though she knew the portal was codelocked. Sweat trickled down her back as she returned to the bed, feeling oddly vulnerable. Finley . . .

  She lay down, feeling bitter. What sort of life could she expect once they were married? If Finley was so concerned about keeping up appearances, what would he want from her?

  I’ll be going down to the planet tomorrow, she thought.

  The idea gnawed at her mind. Could she transfer her trust fund to Williamson’s World? Plot an escape? But if she did, the entire corporation would suffer. She was trapped, and Finley, the bastard, knew it. She had no way out.

  Uncomfortably, she slowly drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “We have entered orbit, sir,” Lieutenant Rani Jackson reported. “Orbital position is nominal.”

  “System Command confirms,” Lieutenant Hazelwood added. “They’re clearing our shuttles for fast-track now.”

  “Good,” Paul said, relieved. He hadn’t expected trouble. Williamson’s World had been a success story even before it had joined the Commonwealth. But Supreme was just too big a target for his peace of mind. “Inform the hospitality staff that they can begin disembarking the passengers.”

  “And remind them to ensure that they have their papers,” Jeanette added. “Williamson’s World is a little odd.”

  Paul nodded. “They’ll be checked on departure,” he reminded her. “And upon returning to the ship.”

  He smiled thinly. Dozens of horror stories circulated freely about passengers who forgot their papers and therefore couldn’t return to their ships, although very few of the tales were rooted in reality. If Robert Cavendish or one of his ilk forgot their papers, all that really needed to be done was a quick check against the ship’s records. It was vaguely possible, Paul knew, that an infiltrator could rewrite their DNA enough to fool a basic sensor, but the process would leave traces if someone knew where to look. He’d make sure to be careful if someone claimed to have lost their papers.

  Hazelwood’s console chimed. “Captain, you have a priority call from the surface,” he said slowly. “They’re requesting an immediate chat.”

  Paul rose. “I’ll take it in my office,” he said. “Commander Haverford, you have the bridge.”

  “Aye, sir,” Jeanette said.

  Paul stepped through the hatch and walked over to the desk, his mind churning. Cruise liner captains did receive priority calls, but they normally came after passengers had disembarked. A guest might have had an accident . . . or run into trouble with the local law . . . but he hadn’t even disembarked anyone yet! He sat down and pressed his fingertips against the terminal reader. No doubt it would resolve itself soon enough.

  A stoic face appeared in the display. “Captain VanGundy?”

  “Yes,” Paul said. There was no point in trying to deny it. “What can I do for you?”

  “Captain Harness, Commonwealth Investigative Service,” the man said. “I’ll get right to the point. You’re taking passengers onboard, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Paul said. Supreme had a number of new guests lined up if they hadn’t canceled between departure and arrival. It wasn’t uncommon. The ones who hadn’t canceled would be making their slow way to the spaceport now. “Do you believe I need to deny boarding?”

  “Rather the opposite,” Harness said. His face twisted, oddly. “I need you to take on a particular guest.”

  Paul’s eyes narrowed. If the Commonwealth Investigative Service was involved . . .

  It clicked. “A criminal?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Harness said. “A man called Roman Bryon. I’m sending you the file now.”<
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  Paul frowned as the file popped up in front of him. “A serial killer?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Are you mad?” Paul forced himself to remain calm. “You want to put a serial killer on a cruise liner?”

  Harness looked embarrassed. “The CIS arrested him, with the cooperation of the local authorities, after a request was received from Britannia. Bryon managed to escape the long arm of planetary law by somehow boarding a freighter and fleeing to Williamson’s World, but they tracked him down.”

  “How reassuring,” Paul said. The file’s list of murders did not make pleasant reading. “Put him on another ship.”

  “That’s not an option,” Harness said. “The treaties we signed insist that he be put on the first available vessel.”

  “Then hire another ship,” Paul said. He waved a hand at the bulkhead, indicating the planet below. “This is not some stage-one colony world where there’s only one ship every five months, if they’re lucky. There are hundreds of starships coming and going.”

  “Yes, but you’re the only one going straight to Britannia,” Harness pointed out. “The budget will not allow us to hire a ship.”

  Paul groaned. Corporate would not be pleased. It wouldn’t be the first time their ships had been used to transport prisoners, and he’d never heard of an escape, but no one would feel comfortable with a man like Roman Bryon on their ship. Paul had reviewed the treaties back when he’d been retraining. If Supreme really was the first available vessel going in the right direction, and if it was technically feasible, Paul had to take the criminal.

  It isn’t as if we’re short of brig space, he thought tartly. Or we could just put him in a stasis pod.

  “I’ll have to clear it with my superiors,” he temporized. Corporate might authorize him to hire a second starship rather than risk taking a serial killer on Supreme. “They’ll have to sign off on the risk.”

  “They don’t have a choice,” Harness said. “The treaty—”

  “I don’t know how well that interpretation will stand up in court,” Paul said. “Tell me . . . is there any good news?”

  “Bryon will be escorted by one of my people,” Harness said. “He has both the training and enhancements necessary to keep someone in line.”

  “Bryon will be going straight into the brig,” Paul told him. “There’s no way in hell I’m giving him a goddamned cabin.”

  “Understood,” Harness said.

  Paul glowered down at the file. Had someone planned the timing to ensure that Bryon had to travel on Supreme? Was the escort hoping for a free holiday? Or was Paul just being paranoid? Every spacer knew that sometimes the timing just didn’t work out.

  And we might well be the only ship bound for Britannia, he mused. Crap.

  “I’ll check with Corporate, then get back to you,” he said. He cursed under his breath. Technically, he did have the authority to deny boarding, but such hubris would probably cost him his career. Harness would have plenty of time to appeal to Corporate and convince Paul’s superiors to override him. “You’ll have an answer before we depart.”

  “Very good, Captain,” Harness said. “And thank you.”

  His face vanished. Paul swore out loud, then keyed his wristcom. He needed to write an urgent message, then make the arrangements. If Harness was right . . .

  Fuck, he thought. The guests will throw a fit.

  Matt was looking forward to going down to Williamson’s World himself, although the stewards would have only a few hours on the surface—hardly enough to do more than visit Spaceport Row and maybe a few landmarks. Two-thirds of the passengers were taking full advantage of the opportunity to disembark, booking rooms in planetary hotels and lining up strings of touristy activities. They got to spend a full week on the planet.

  The airlock was a bottleneck, he reminded himself, as the guests slowly filed past the stewards. Matt and Carla checked their telltales to make sure they were authorized to leave the ship, then waved them through and into the shuttles. The process struck him as disorganized, but it didn’t really matter. Getting the guests back onto the ship would be a great deal harder.

  He smiled as he saw Maris and Susan Simpson, the latter grinning from ear to ear. Matt waved to the little girl, wondering if he’d ever been that young. Susan was clearly excited to see another world . . . he felt a flicker of envy, mixed with concern. He hadn’t had the impression that Maris was rich enough to afford a hotel in a good neighborhood, but there was nothing he could do.

  “We’re going down to the surface,” Susan said when she reached the checkpoint. “It’s going to be fun!”

  “I hope so,” Matt said. He scanned her telltale. It bleeped up a warning: Susan was not allowed to leave the ship without her mother or a duly authorized guardian. “Just let me check your mother.”

  “We’ll be coming back in the evening,” Maris said. Matt checked her telltale, making sure to link it to Susan’s. The last thing he needed was an alert going off when Susan tried to board the shuttle. “What time is the last shuttle?”

  Matt checked his terminal. “Twenty-three hundred, unless you hire a private craft,” he said. “You can split the cost with other passengers, if you wish.”

  Maris looked irked. “Thank you,” she said. “Susan, come.”

  Susan waved goodbye, then hurried through the hatch. Matt smiled and turned back to the line. A whole string of people walked past without any alarms, just enough to make him relax before he heard a warning bleep. The guest was disembarking permanently and needed to take another shuttle.

  “It’s vitally important that I disembark at once,” the guest said. He was a tall man with a long dark goatee and a grim expression. “I have meetings . . .”

  “You need to pass through immigration,” Matt said, keeping his voice calm. “That’s the shuttle departing from the lower hatch . . .”

  The guest bit off a curse, then stamped off. Matt watched him go, hoping he wouldn’t lodge a formal complaint. The captain would understand—regulations were tighter when someone was disembarking permanently—but Corporate might take a dimmer view. And yet, they wrote the damn regulations. If someone went down to the surface without following proper procedure, they might well be arrested and deported. At the very least, Matt would be unceremoniously fired for landing Corporate in the shit.

  “Matt,” a familiar voice said. He looked up to see Angela Cavendish. His breath caught in his throat. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” Matt managed. He was aware, all too aware, of Carla looking at him. He had to keep it professional. “Can I see your telltale?”

  Angela held out her hand. Matt scanned the telltale, then blinked in shock. The response was clear: DISEMBARKING DENIED.

  “I have to leave the ship,” Angela said. She leaned forward, her perfume drifting through the air. “Please . . .”

  Matt swallowed, hard. Angela had been denied disembarking? It would make sense for Nancy, he supposed, but Nancy was a child! Angela was nineteen, easily old enough to travel down to the surface on her own. Unless . . . he looked at the tag, then called up her file. No conditions, merely a blanket ban. Angela was simply not allowed to leave the ship.

  “I can’t clear you to leave,” he said. He tried to find out who had barred her from travel, but there was no ID mark on the file. “You’d need to appeal to the captain.”

  Angela stared at him. “But I need to leave!”

  Matt looked back, trying to remain calm. There was something plaintive in her voice. She was begging him to help. And yet . . .

  “I can’t let you board the shuttle, My Lady,” he said carefully. “You wouldn’t be allowed to disembark at the far end.”

  “You have to,” Angela said. Her voice started to rise, hysterically. “You have to let me through!”

  Carla came forward. “You need to speak to the captain,” she said briskly. Matt was torn between relief that she’d intervened and irritation. “Miss Cavendish, we cannot clear you through the hatch.
You have been denied permission to leave the ship.”

  Angela’s face crumpled, then twisted with rage. “He did it,” she screamed. Matt recoiled in shock. The other guests were already backing away. “He did it!”

  Matt stared as Angela broke down completely, alternatively railing at the two stewards and screaming insults in all directions. Who had done it? Robert Cavendish? Or someone else? Or . . . he glanced at Carla, unsure what to do. A hysterical guest needed to be removed as quickly and quietly as possible, but that was clearly impossible. Angela might be faking it—he’d seen a few people fake hysterics to get what they wanted—yet the tirade looked real. She sounded as though she had reached the limits of her endurance . . .

  “Come with me,” Carla said.

  Carla took Angela’s arm and marched her down the corridor. Matt stared after them, unsure what to do. The rest of the guests seemed equally shocked. He keyed a report into his terminal, then started to check the next telltale. Carla didn’t come back; another steward arrived to replace her. The rest of the shift passed without incident. Matt couldn’t help being relieved.

  He headed back to the wardroom as soon as his replacement arrived and found Carla sitting in front of the terminal. “I can’t tell who put the block on her,” she said. “But she was definitely forbidden to leave the ship.”

  Matt nodded. He’d looked it up for himself. “What happened?”

  “I managed to get her to calm down once she was away from the hatch,” Carla said. She looked up at him and smiled. “Still like that girl, honey?”

  “Did she say what was wrong?” Matt asked, ignoring her question. “Or anything useful?”

  Carla shrugged. “If that’s her reaction to a minor setback,” she said, “I dread to imagine what she’d do if she suffered a real blow. Or took a pratfall. Or . . .” She snorted. “Maybe she just needed a bodyguard,” she added. “Williamson’s World isn’t Ahura Mazda, but it isn’t exactly safe either.”

  “Not around the spaceport,” Matt agreed. If some of the old sweats were telling the truth, there were ports no one would want to visit without full combat armor and a company of heavily armed marines. “I’m sure Angela would have been fine.”