The most probable answer to that was that Quill himself had been talking about her recently. There were quite a few possible reasons for that, Alex thought, and none of them good.
He let it go for several minutes, but he could feel it right there in the room, an elephant looming over and stifling the conversation.
‘Look, Quill,’ he said eventually, breaking in to Quill trying to be cheerful and chatty and tell amusing anecdotes from station life. ‘I’m not stupid,’ Alex pointed out. ‘Or blind. So let’s be honest, all right? That mention of ‘exes’ made you jump like I’d hit you with a stun-prod. And that wasn’t, I’m thinking, because of Matty or Yula.’
He looked expectantly, searchingly, and saw Quill grimace.
‘Sorry,’ Quill admitted, and sighed. ‘I would never make an Intel agent,’ he observed, and then, with sincere apology, ‘I am sorry, Alex. The last thing I want is…well, you know. And the thing is…’ he sat forward with that, propping his elbows on the table and gazing at him earnestly, ‘There are things that you don’t want to know,’ he said. ‘Which I understand, of course, and I respect that. So I would not, I promise you, have said a word – didn’t mean to let on, in any way. But since I clearly have zero cover skills, I will admit that there are things going on – things I know about but I know you don’t, so I wouldn’t have said anything, even without that injunction landing on my desk. And there it is, so…zip.’ He mimed sealing his own mouth, but carried right on talking. ‘So can we just pretend that you didn’t see anything, and leave it at that?’
Alex considered, conscious as he did so of a hollow feeling in his stomach, a sense of something hovering nearby which, if he allowed it to approach, might well emerge in monstrous form. He was conscious, in fact, of feeling afraid.
That injunction. There was only one injunction Quill could be talking about. It had been taken out years ago, back when the Fourth was being founded. Oddly, it had been organised by Dix Harangay himself even though the injunction was actually against the Admiralty – it had imposed a legal requirement on them to protect him from intrusion into his private life; specifically, against intrusion into the matter of his child’s death and his divorce. Alex had signed the paperwork on Dix’s advice, giving it very little thought in all the furore at the time, and only grateful to Dix for doing what he could to look after him.
Alex had no idea at all how much effort had been put into that over the years, or of how widely that injunction had been deployed. Dix had not been able to prevent the media broadcasting about Etta’s death or the acrimonious divorce, the media had argued successfully in court that that story was already in the public domain. What he had done, however, was to make it an offence for anyone to tell Alex himself about that coverage. That was the effect of the injunction, like a restraining order against anyone and everyone, preventing them from telling him about media coverage relating to his daughter or ex-wife.
The injunction had been served right across the Fleet, to every base and every ship, with timely reminders about it any time people might come into contact with Alex themselves.
And it had, miraculously, worked. The taboo had expanded to cover everyone serving with the Fourth – Buzz’s doing, that, quietly ensuring that everyone serving with them understood that it would be uncomfortable for them if they were aware of things they had to keep secret from the skipper, and those things so private and painful to him. Every single person who had served with the Fourth had undertaken, voluntarily, to put a block on their own media access so that any broadcast referencing Alex’s ex-wife or child would be routinely screened out, and to ask friends and family, too, not to share that kind of stuff with them. Not fair on the skipper was the watchword there, with a loyalty which would have touched Alex to the heart if he had known about it.
People did mention it sometimes, of course – there were inevitably tactless civilians who offered their condolences at social events, and journalists who’d yell anything in the hope of provoking some kind of reaction. But there was always someone at Alex’s elbow ready to intervene and deflect intrusive civilians, and he never listened to what journalists were saying. It wasn’t an issue at press calls, at least - it was made very clear to any journalist attending such a call that even a single question about that would cause Alex to leave immediately, and for that journalist to lose their Admiralty privileges. The media might rant about that infringing their right to free reportage, but none of them had sunk so low as to ask Alex about his dead child, not when they were face to face with him.
He had known, naturally, that it would be part of the coverage at Chartsey. Of course it would. The hero of the moment had lost a child in tragic circumstances, and it would have been easier to shift a planet out of orbit than to get the media not to mention that. But Alex didn’t have to know what they were saying, and that made it bearable.
Memories emerged, though, in the light of what Quill had said… someone, somewhere, a blobby face in an overcrowded room, an over-familiar hand squeezing his arm, breathing the smell of wine into his face, I think it’s awful about your wife, and the words hardly out before an attaché was physically separating them, with a courteous but firm reminder to respect the Captain’s privacy. Other things, too, half heard, deliberately ignored, resolutely ignored, which now flew back like pieces of a jigsaw, forming a picture he didn’t want to see.
You are not to worry about the situation with GT. The legal people have it all in hand.
President Tyborne’s incomprehensible assurance floated up and slotted into place.
GT. Oh God. Her. GT was Her. He had always known her as Lou, but her full name was Gialouise. The T meant nothing – her surname was Makinzay, and she was not from a culture where either partner changed their name on marriage. So she’d been Lou Makinzay for the duration of their marriage and as far as he knew she still was. He knew nothing about the change of name, the new job, the new city, the new life she’d made to distance herself from any association with him. But he knew, all the same. GT. The situation with GT. The legal people. And Quill wincing at the toast ‘to our exes.’
Alex said a word – the only time in all their years of friendship that Quill had ever heard him swear.
‘Sorry,’ Alex said, at once, as Quill stared in disbelief. ‘I only meant to say that in my head.’ He took a breath, and steadied himself, though he was feeling quite nauseous. ‘I think,’ he said carefully, ‘I understand. And you’re right, Quill, I don’t want to know. But just – yes or no, all right?’ He looked at his friend and Quill suddenly found himself feeling like a very junior officer firmly on the carpet. It was all he could do to stop himself saying sir. Instead he just nodded.
‘All right,’ Alex said, and with an almost dispassionate manner, ‘Am I right in thinking that there is something, some kind of publicity, regarding Her?’
Quill nodded again. ‘Yes.’
Alex took a moment. Not only was it awful in itself to be talking about his ex-wife, but he was mystified, too. She had managed to get a Protection of Privacy Order in time to prevent the media reporting about her, at least to the extent of forbidding them to identify her or broadcast any information which could lead to her being identified. Alex himself had been served with those documents, along with a further injunction restraining him from talking about her to the media. As if he would. Such a POPO, Alex knew, was extremely resilient – Joe from the Embassy had obtained one on his parents’ behalf, assuring him that it was so binding on the media that not even the most fly-by-night gutter channel would dare to breach it. That would not be a matter of an action for breach of injunction or even a fine, but a guaranteed prison sentence for the editor responsible. The POPO, after all, was granted for the safety of people whose security and even lives would be at risk if their identities were known, so exposing them would be an act of criminal hazard, in much the same way as it would be shove someone out in moving traffic. So she had either been exposed by a criminal breach of her rights, or had set aside the P
OPO, herself.
Was that conceivable? As he thought about it, Alex realised slowly that it was. The timing was key. That, and his understanding of her character.
She had obtained the POPO at the point where Alex himself was appearing on the news in that first blast of media exposure over his ship being moved onto irregular terms of service. And her POPO had been granted not only on the basis that she would be at physical risk from anti-Fourth campaigners if it was known that she was von Strada’s ex-wife, but that her career and social standing would suffer significant damage if she was known to have been married to him, too. Nothing that had happened since would have given her any reason to want to be known as having had anything to do with him.
But things were different now, weren’t they? He was no longer Infamous, but Famous, a hero riding through the streets of Londane in a tickertape parade.
That in itself would not be enough to tempt her out of anonymity. But there was something that would. Money. Lots and lots of money.
She had been entirely honest about what she wanted from their marriage, just as he had himself. It had been, effectively, a business arrangement. Alex had wanted a domestic partner who’d provide the groundside home and family he wanted, and she had wanted the income and social standing being married to a Fleet Skipper would provide. They had got along well – hard as it was now for Alex to even remember, he had liked her very much. There had been moments of love, even, when she was carrying his child, and at the birth, and in times together as a family. Alex did not know what she’d ever felt for him, if anything. But he did know she valued wealth and social status more than anything in life. If someone had persuaded her that she could have both, by selling her story as a sympathetic figure… that, yes, that would have done it. And Alex, feeling sick to the heart, really didn’t want to know any more.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Do you, knowing me as you do, feel that there is anything I need to know about?’
Quill shook his head. ‘No.’
He should have left it at that. He should have just said all right and let it go. He knew that. He knew that continuing this conversation would lead nowhere but grief. But somehow…
‘And…’ the words seemed to come out of their own volition, ‘knowing what you do… do you think the chances are that I will be able to continue in ignorance?’
Quill shook his head sadly. ‘I’m amazed,’ he admitted, ‘that you haven’t heard about it already. Of course, you’ve been out of things for a couple of weeks, and I guess they had a cordon round you on Chartsey, but even so…’ he seemed to remember that Alex had asked only for yes or no answers. ‘No.’ He said. ‘Sorry, Alex. But… no.’ And then, unable to stop himself, ‘I can’t imagine that you’ll be able to go for long without somebody telling you about it.’
Don’t ask the question, Alex reminded himself, unless you are prepared to hear the answer. And another voice at the back of his mind commented, You knew that already.
Yes, he thought. I did. He could pretend that Quill hadn’t let this slip, but it would be hanging over him, a sword of Damocles awaiting an inevitable disclosure.
‘All right,’ he said, with the words seeming to happen a long way off from the Alex sitting in that chair. ‘Tell me.’
Quill swallowed. ‘You sure?’
‘Sure,’ said Alex, who was nothing of the kind, and then, more honestly, ‘I would rather hear it from you.’ As Quill winced again, he asked, ‘Just – make it quick.’
Quill took a gulp of his beer.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Sorry – sorry, Alex. I hate this. But… if you have to hear it… okay. She sold her story, okay? To a magazine channel – Verace. For a six figure sum.’
Memory flashed. Cruel, unwanted memory – a conversation so trivial it had meant nothing at the time, but stored away somewhere to be triggered into recall just by the mention of Verace.
It had been his wife’s favourite channel – a middle class, aspirational magazine channel which featured inspirational reality shows, fashion and lifestyle, with a connecting thread of studio chat.
They’d been at home in the executive apartment he’d bought when they got married. Etta wasn’t there – put to bed already, perhaps, as he was in dress uniform himself and Lou was in evening dress. They were ready to go out, but perhaps a little early. She, anyway, was in the lounge watching something on Verace and so absorbed in it that she told him they’d go when it was finished. Alex, not really wanting to go out anyway, had commented irritably that he didn’t know why she watched that trash. It had led to one of their few arguments, conducted over the course of several hours with icy silences and barbed remarks.
Yes, of course, he thought. Verace. And they, of course, had promised to let her tell her story the way she wanted to, and to protect her, too, as their exclusive, from the rest of the media.
Someone must have told her, surely. Someone at some stage in that process must have warned her what she was getting into. It was so obvious to Alex what would have happened next that Quill hardly needed to say it. Verace would have launched out big with her as a tragic figure, heartbroken mum, abandoned wife.
And the rest of the media, denied access to her, would have retaliated with a far more dramatic, viewer-grabbing story.
It wasn’t as if they’d have to work hard for it, either. A high school kid on work experience could put that one together from facts on public record. It had even been reported before, albeit on a highly negative slant and without identifying her – the fact that Alex had blamed her for the death of their child and even tried to have her prosecuted for manslaughter.
At the time, the media had pitched that as just one more example of how brutal Alex was. But the findings of the inquest were on record, as were the decisions of the police to close the case and the prosecution service refusing Alex’s application to reopen it.
The point at issue was one of ‘he said/she said.’ His wife had given a version of events in which she’d made a terrible mistake, not fastening Etta’s seat restraints properly, and another mistake, when Etta managed to get out of her child seat, in not stopping the car at once to secure her. But she had been at ground level, travelling so slowly, with just a couple of minutes until they’d get to Etta’s nursery. The car which had come tumbling out of the sky had hit her so fast there was no time for her to do anything. The inquest, held within days of the death and before Alex himself was even aware of it, had found Death by Misadventure, concluding that there was insufficient evidence of criminal negligence and that it would not be in the public interest to prosecute an already devastated young mother for a tragic accident.
Alex, though, had evidence the inquest had not heard. He had discovered his wife allowing Etta to ride unrestrained in the back of the car, with a protest from Etta at Daddy putting her into her seat which made it apparent that Mummy never made her do that. She made such a fuss, his wife had said, with tantrums and grizzles every minute of the journey.
Alex, though, had been furious, and adamant, making her swear on her honour that she would never allow Etta to ride out of her seat again. And less than three months later, his daughter had been killed in an accident she’d have survived with barely a bruise if she’d been in that seat.
His evidence had not been accepted, though. He had not even been on the planet at the time, was clearly a very angry grieving father looking for someone to blame, and there was only his word for it that the alleged incident and argument had ever taken place at all. She had denied it, of course. And she had been believed.
The media could not come straight out and accuse her of perjury, or of manslaughter by criminal negligence, because the inquest had already given its verdict. But they could make it very obvious what they believed, all the same. And if that didn’t damn her, then the divorce records certainly would.
The divorce itself had been extremely simple – nothing easier than to sever a marriage contract, after all, with either party able to apply for dissolution on no more grou
nds than ‘I no longer wish this marriage to continue’. The other party had no right to object, only the right to be informed that the marriage had been terminated.
Property division should normally be equally straightforward, since such agreements were a required part of the marriage contract, specifying exactly what each party was bringing to the marriage and what they would be entitled to either on it coming to end-of-contract separation or divorce. Theirs had been a twenty-year contract, signed with the declared intention of having and raising children together. And with Etta dead, the division of their property should have been a fifty-fifty split. Alex had brought far more to the marriage financially, but she had been the domestic mainstay, so it was an equitable agreement. Alex, anyway, would have honoured it, even in the depths of his grief and rage.
She, however, had not. She had challenged the terms of the contract, claiming a ninety five per cent share of the marital assets on the basis that she had put her own career on hold to have and care for Etta. Alex had fought back, counter-suing her for breach of his parental rights by having had Etta cremated and interred in a cinerarium, against his wishes, when she knew that he’d be back in port within a month.
He’d won, obtaining both custody of his daughter’s ashes and the apartment, which still held all Etta’s belongings. Upon which he had sold the apartment and everything in it, giving every cent to a children’s charity in his daughter’s name. And he had, then, as the media would certainly have reported with every heart-tugging detail they could either find out or get away with ‘inferring’, hired a yacht and taken Etta’s ashes out into deep space, for the trip he’d always promised her that they would take together. He had given her a spacer funeral, dropping her ashes sublight so that she streamed out across the cosmos as a burst of supercharged particles. The only thing he had kept were his holos of her, his most private and most treasured possession.
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