The Hyperspace Trap

by Christopher Nuttall

  “And codelocked,” Singh put in. “We don’t believe they can be reactivated.”

  “Good,” Paul said.

  Slater’s men took over the stretcher and carried it through the maze of hidden corridors, down to the brig. Paul followed, feeling cold. There was no sense of danger around Bryon, no sense that he was an unspeakable monster. But he remembered the images attached to the file and shuddered. Bryon’s normality was his danger. Hardly anyone saw him as a serious threat.

  “We set up a stasis pod in the cell,” Slater explained as they reached the brig. “He’ll be held inside on an independent power circuit. The entire system has been isolated from the rest of the ship.”

  “Very good,” Singh said. “I’ll require access to the brig, of course.”

  Slater didn’t look pleased. “You’ll have access to the general compartment and that particular cell,” he said, “but not to the rest of the cells.”

  Paul kept his face expressionless as the stretcher was carried into the brig, a part of the ship few realized existed, seemingly part of an entirely different vessel. The brig was clean, certainly better than some planetside jail cells, but was indisputably a prison. Each of the cells had minimal privacy, allowing guards to peer in whenever they liked.

  “You don’t use force fields to keep the prisoners inside,” Singh observed.

  “No,” Slater agreed. He opened one of the doors, revealing an independent stasis unit. “We prefer to use something more reliable.”

  Paul nodded in approval. Force fields were good, but if the ship lost power, they’d lose the force fields too. Better to rely on something that couldn’t be taken down so easily. Anyone bent on breaking Bryon out of his cell would have to decrypt a codelocked hatch rather than simply cut the power. Nearly seventy years had passed since a handful of criminals had been broken out of jail when their associates cut the power, but the Tyre Penal Service had never forgotten. Two of the crooks had never been recaptured.

  He watched as Bryon was removed from the stretcher, dumped into the stasis pod, and frozen in time. Some damned bean counter would probably insist that there were better options, but those assholes weren’t on the ship. Better to use a stasis pod than risk a breakout that might leave a dozen guests dead. Paul had no idea precisely what Britannia would do once Bryon was handed over, but he doubted they’d be kind. Bryon’s known crimes were more than enough to get him hung.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Singh said. “I know this is a hassle.”

  “It’s a security nightmare,” Paul said. Robert Cavendish had asked him to a private dinner. Perhaps he’d raise the issue there. “As long as he stays in the pod, there shouldn’t be a problem. But if he gets out . . .”

  “I’ll stop him,” Singh said calmly. He sounded confident. His record suggested he had reason to be. “I have permission to use deadly force, if necessary.”

  “You might have to,” Paul said. He looked at Slater. “I’ll be on the bridge, preparing to depart. Alert me if there are any problems.”

  “Yes, sir,” Slater said.

  Two hours later, they slipped into hyperspace and set course for Britannia.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Our escort has just peeled away,” Commander Tidal Macpherson said. “We’re on our own.”

  “All alone,” Lieutenant Rani Jackson said.

  “Stow that chatter,” Paul snapped. He wasn’t in a good mood. They’d done everything in their power to ensure that no one could track Supreme unless vessels had sensors so advanced they might as well have come from the future, but he still felt naked. “Helm, are we on course for Britannia?”

  “Yes, sir,” Rani said. “Assuming we don’t have to change course, we will cross the border in twelve days and reach our destination in nineteen.”

  Paul nodded, stiffly. They would have to change course. He was fairly sure of it. The weather reports warned that energy storms had been sighted along the border, blocking a straight-line course to Britannia. They might have to change course several times just to avoid disaster. Irritating, but couldn’t be helped.

  “Very good,” he said. He looked around the bridge. “I want long-range sensors to be constantly monitored at all times. We’ll change course to avoid any potential contacts.”

  “Aye, sir,” Tidal said.

  Paul sat back in his chair, cursing under his breath. No reports of pirate activity had crossed his desk. It wasn’t as though he was taking the liner through the Gap and into Theocratic space, but changing course still didn’t sit well with him. Ideally, Supreme would be escorted at all times. And yet he knew it just couldn’t be helped. The Royal Navy had too many other demands on its time.

  He keyed his console, requesting a status update. Everything appeared to be fine: the crew were doing their jobs, the guests were enjoying themselves . . . many of the children were even enjoying a game of hide and seek, according to the stewards. And yet he still felt uneasy as his ship moved farther from Williamson’s World.

  You’re being silly, he told himself firmly. What are you planning to do? Turn back to Williamson’s World? Or fly all the way back to Tyre?

  His lips quirked. In theory, he could abort the entire cruise at will; in practice, Corporate would fire him as soon as they heard about the maneuver. The guests would be outraged at having their trip cut short for nothing more than their captain’s unease. They’d sue . . . and they’d have a point. Paul’s unease was rooted in nothing more than his own concerns about being alone in hyperspace.

  “Commander, you have the bridge,” he said, rising. He had paperwork to manage and a string of formal complaints to register. Corporate couldn’t help him, but perhaps they could make it easier for the next commander who was asked to take on an unwanted passenger because of an outdated treaty. “I’ll be in my office.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jeanette said.

  Nancy, Angela decided as she pressed the terminal against the sensor, was a genius.

  She didn’t even begin to understand the explanation her sister had given her. Indeed, she suspected Nancy didn’t understand half the technobabble she’d used. But it was enough to know that the combination of her family’s ID codes and the absence of a telltale was enough to open the hatch into the observation blister. Leaving the telltale behind was a risk, she admitted, but would make it harder for Marie to track her down. The governess had been so clingy over the last few days that Angela had come close to hitting her.

  Probably won’t be that difficult to find me, she thought sourly. But as long as she thinks I’m in my room, everything will be fine.

  Angela walked forward and sat on the bench, peering out into hyperspace. The observation blister felt comfortable, even though the space looked like an afterthought. She didn’t see why it was needed when there were so many windows on the starship, allowing anyone lucky enough to have one of the better cabins to look outside. The compartment was crude, the bench was hard metal . . . but it was private. She’d have happily borrowed a steerage cabin if it meant some privacy.

  Hyperspace flickered and flared outside, waves of sparkling luminescence dancing around the giant starship. Angela watched shimmering rivers of light flaring in the distance, half wishing she could step through the bubble. It would have killed her, but . . . she closed her eyes for a long moment, trying to fight down bitter depression. Perhaps death would be better than being trapped.

  It isn’t going to be that bad, she told herself. Really.

  Of course not, her thoughts mocked her. It’s going to be worse.

  Angela sighed, out loud. Finley wanted . . . what? Her to be a quiet little butterfly? To play the role of a dutiful wife? No one would care what she did, as long as she bore Finley two children . . . but it was important, apparently, that everyone believed the marriage was working. She couldn’t live apart from him, she couldn’t go to social events without him, she couldn’t . . .

  She opened her eyes and looked down at her pale hands. She was trapped. There was no way off th
e ship, no way out of her life. She’d marry Finley the night before they returned to Tyre, then . . . live in his mansion and do nothing. Nothing at all. She couldn’t even look forward to the wedding night. It was impossible to imagine Finley doing anything but sleeping. He’d sleep with her . . .

  He will sleep with me, she thought. She giggled, despite herself. That’s all he’ll do.

  She cursed her own stupidity under her breath. She could have studied hard and learned how to handle the family’s affairs. God knew her father needed more trusted help. Her relatives back on Tyre could keep matters ticking over for the time being, but that wouldn’t last forever. The corporation needed bold and decisive leadership. Or she could have joined the navy, or gone into politics, or even used her trust fund to buy a starship or set up a business of her own. Instead, she’d just wasted her life.

  It was a waste, she thought angrily. Why didn’t anyone tell me?

  Because you wouldn’t listen, her own thoughts pointed out. Would you?

  She clenched her fists. Of course she wouldn’t have listened. As a child, she’d enjoyed herself; as a teenager, she’d sought pleasure in all its myriad forms. She’d grown into physical adulthood without ever having matured. And now she was nothing more than breeding stock. The only thing she was expected to do was lie back and think of the corporation.

  The hatch hissed open behind her. Angela started, then glanced around. Matt stepped into the compartment wearing his white uniform. His eyes went wide when he saw her. Angela remembered just how she’d behaved at the shuttle hatch and blushed. She’d acted like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

  “My Lady,” Matt said, his voice formal. “This is a restricted area.”

  Angela winced. They’d had a friendly chat once, hadn’t they? But that had been before she’d thrown a tantrum. She couldn’t really blame him, she supposed, for keeping his tone as formal as possible. He wasn’t a family retainer who’d earned the right to speak his mind, just . . . just someone so low on the totem pole that no one would care if he lost his job. A word from her would be enough to get him thrown into the brig.

  “I’m sorry for how I treated you,” she said. Her father hadn’t reprimanded her for her behavior. Somehow, that made her feel worse. “I was out of line.”

  “I’ve had worse,” Matt assured her. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on her face. “I’m just the face of someone else’s decision.”

  “I know,” Angela said. “I was a little brat.”

  “A big brat,” Matt said with a hint of the old smile. Angela was glad to see it. His face was handsome enough, she supposed, but she liked the way it lit up when he smiled. That wasn’t something you could buy in a bodyshop. “Are you feeling better now?”

  “Just a little,” Angela lied. “I . . . my life is a mess.”

  Matt quirked his eyebrows. “What do you have to worry about?”

  “It’s a long story,” Angela said. There was no point in telling him. She certainly didn’t really know him. What if he started a whole new series of rumors? “My life is a mess.”

  “I think everyone gets that feeling from time to time,” Matt said. “I’ve had it too.”

  Angela found it hard to believe him. She didn’t think he had anything like her problems. No one was pressuring him into an unhappy marriage with an old man trapped in a young man’s body. But she supposed he had problems of his own. It was hard to imagine the scion of a wealthy family joining the crew and being berated by every last passenger. Even the steerage passengers on the lower decks spoke down to the crew.

  “I was told that I should tell people to talk through their problems,” Matt said. “Would that actually help?”

  Angela surprised herself by giggling. “Who told you that?”

  “Corporate,” Matt said. “We were given lectures on conflict management and reconciliation.”

  “I don’t think that would help,” Angela said.

  She shook her head in disbelief. Conflict management and reconciliation indeed! It sounded like something that would be applied to a planet emerging from civil war. And yet, if it didn’t address the underlying problems, it wouldn’t put the war off indefinitely. She’d never paid that much attention to international affairs, but it just sounded stupid. People were not machines governed by logic and reason. The Theocracy would have conceded defeat long ago if they’d allowed cold logic to trump religious fanaticism.

  And no amount of talking will hide the fact we need the match to work, she thought bitterly. I have to marry Finley, and that’s the end of it.

  She groaned to herself. Perhaps it wouldn’t be ten years, but longer. Much longer. What if she found herself trapped for twenty years, until the children reached adulthood? She could leave then, she was sure, but . . . she wouldn’t be the same, not afterwards. She’d seen too many old women in young bodies, acting . . . acting as though they were trying to make up for lost time. It dawned on her, slowly, that parts of the aristocratic world were sick. How many others, men as well as women, had grown bitter and resentful over the years?

  Matt cleared his throat. “I have to ask,” he said, “how did you get in here?”

  Angela didn’t bother to dissemble. “Nancy taught me a trick,” she said, holding up the terminal. “How did you know I was in here?”

  “An alert went off, just as I was about to go off duty,” Matt said. He inspected the terminal thoughtfully. “Your little sister is quite clever. She used an override code to unlock the hatch. I wonder how she got it.”

  “Probably borrowed it from Father,” Angela said. Nancy had always been exploring places she wasn’t supposed to go. They’d had to get her out of a chimney once . . . which hadn’t been easy. “Or perhaps from one of the staff.”

  Matt looked displeased. “Technically, I should report it,” he said. “If the codes are being misused . . .”

  Angela shot him a pleading look. “She’s only twelve.”

  “But someone else might have copied the code too,” Matt said. “And be smart enough not to use it while wearing a telltale.”

  “Sorry,” Angela muttered. She looked down at her bare wrist. In hindsight, she should have worn a long-sleeved shirt. The absence of the telltale was obvious. “I’ll speak to her.”

  “Make sure she listens,” Matt advised. He motioned for her to stand. “You can’t stay here.”

  Angela rose slowly. The lights of hyperspace seemed to be calling to her . . . she wondered, suddenly, just how much force was necessary to break the canopy. She doubted, somehow, that her fists would be enough.

  She turned. Matt looked good, great even, in his uniform. She allowed her eyes to trail over him, noting the half-hidden muscles. He was in fine shape for a man who presumably didn’t go to the bodyshops each week for a touch-up. His face was a little babyish, she decided, but he still had a soothing smile. The form suited him.

  “Everyone else is at the ball,” she said. Thankfully, she hadn’t been forced to attend. Her tantrum provided an excellent excuse. “Would you . . . ah . . . would you escort me back to my quarters?”

  “Of course,” Matt said. “My pleasure.”

  He opened the hatch and motioned for her to step through. Angela took one last look around the observation blister—she was sure she wouldn’t be able to come back—and then stepped through the hatch and walked down to the promenade. Only a couple of guests were visible, one reading an old-fashioned book and the other snoring loudly in an armchair, his face covered by a towel. Angela smiled at the sight as she and Matt moved down towards the inner hatch, feeling a tinge of envy. The two old men had nothing to worry about, did they?

  Perhaps they do, she thought. I didn’t know the corporation was in trouble until it was too late, did I?

  It was a sobering thought. She was used, too used, to being surrounded by beautiful people, by men and women who acted as though they didn’t have a care in the world. Her friends back home had partied all night, slept all day, and then partied again . . . and again . .
. and again. They’d never been concerned about money or power . . . they’d grumbled about their allowances from their parents, but they’d never felt poor. They’d certainly never lacked for anything. And yet, who knew what had been hiding behind their pretty faces?

  She looked at Matt as they walked down the corridor. His handsome face wasn’t real, but there was a genuineness to him that so many of her friends back home lacked. He actually had to work for a living, something she hadn’t known she should value until it was too late. He exhibited no polish beyond a handful of etiquette lessons, no facade that might conceal a rotting heart. She looked at him . . .

  . . . and realized, suddenly, that she’d already made a decision.

  They reached her back door and stopped. “Can you open it?” she asked. “I don’t want to go through the antechamber.”

  Matt seemed to find the request perfectly reasonable. He pressed his wristcom against the scanner, unlocking the hatch. Angela stepped into her bedroom, motioning for Matt to follow. The room was a mess—she’d thrown boxes and dresses around after her father had told her she was effectively grounded—but at least it was private. Her telltale lay on the bed where she’d left it.

  She looked at Matt. “Close the hatch.”

  Matt did as he was told. Angela took a deep breath, then leaned forward and kissed him. His body tensed in surprise an instant before his lips melted into hers. He hadn’t known what she wanted, she realized. An aristocrat would have had no trouble recognizing the invitation for what it actually was. But Matt . . . to him, she was forbidden fruit. The thought added spice as she broke the kiss, wrapping her arms around him. She could feel his heartbeat . . .

  Her father would not approve, she knew. Nor would her mother . . . or Finley. Matt was a steward, one of the hired hands. He was so far below her that any relationship would be the stuff of a bad romcom. But she found it hard to care. She wanted—needed—to feel as though she was desired for herself, not for her title or money. She wanted to feel like a person.