Inside Out

by Thorne Moore

  Inside Out

  Thorne Moore

  Pear Tree Publications

  Copyright © 2021 Thorne Moore

  Thorne Moore asserts her moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  An Invitation

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Afterword

  Acknowledgement

  About The Author

  Books By This Author

  An Invitation

  Ragnox Inc.

  First Across the System

  Tired of a humdrum job?

  Undervalued at work?

  Life passing you by?

  Are you looking for Excitement?

  Challenge?

  Money!!!

  Ready for life in the Deregulated Zone?

  Then Ragnox Inc. is looking for YOU.

  Director Jordan Pascal invites you to sign up now for a stimulating and lucrative seven-year contract at N1 Research Station on Triton, the nerve centre of Ragnox Inc’s Outer Circles operations.

  Take the challenge

  Learn to live

  Come home a millionaire!

  Contact us now!

  Terms and conditions apply.

  Chapter 1

  ‘You will be a good boy, won’t you? And not get in the way or anything?’

  ‘I promise, Ma.’ Tim Faber kept smiling as he reassured his Earth-bound mother that all was well. She seemed to think she was still packing him off for the school bus.

  ‘Selina! Don’t baby the boy.’ Muttered remarks off-screen.

  His mother sighed, and shifted aside to make room for his father, who peered out at Tim with a frown. ‘We don’t want you embarrassing us. You’ll obey Commander Foxe’s orders to the letter.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Is your jacket undone? Respect your uniform. Smarten yourself up, you’re not a scarecrow. Learn a bit of discipline and when you come back, we’ll discuss college. Yes?’

  ‘Absolutely, sir!’

  ‘Keep in touch when you can.’ His mother shouldered her way back onto the screen.

  ‘Well, yeah, but it’ll be difficult out there.’

  ‘I know, but you will try, won’t you? Have a lovely time, anyway.’

  He waved as he disconnected, just catching his father’s last command. ‘Do your buttons up!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he muttered, swivelling his chair around to survey his home from home for the next year and more, the flight deck of ISF Heloise. The ship was currently slumbering quietly, lights dimmed, at docking bay 73 on Newtonia Relay Station One, 300 kilometres above the Earth.

  ‘Going to be sent back to school then, Tim?’ Officer Siegfried strolled over to slap him on the back, and then neglected to remove his hand.

  Tim shifted his chair sideways. The craggily Teutonic Siegfried was just a bit too fond of him for his comfort. ‘Not if I can help it.’ He ambled across the deck to check the equipment that would keep him occupied as far as Ganymede on the Jupiter circle. ‘Hey! Someone’s reset the Altair!’

  Chief Officer Kwame Addo looked up from his command console with a smile. ‘We always do.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’d almost got the hang of it.’

  ‘Faster second time.’

  Second time. Tim liked that. He was part of the crew and heading for considerably more excitement than anything awaiting his college-bound mates. The ambitious ones might one day find themselves hurtling up the corporate ladders to offices on Ganymede or even Platinum City, but he was the one going Out, across the Protocol Line beyond Jupiter, into the furthest reaches of the deregulated zone. Nothing could beat that adrenalin rush.

  ‘Right. Seems we’re in business,’ said Addo.

  Tim looked up at the banks of screens monitoring the ship. It was coming to life. Channels clicked into place, lights came up, chandeliers emerged out of the gloom, shutters sprang up on the bars, trolleys rattled, smartly uniformed staff took up their stations.

  The announcement from the departures concourse reached them. Gate 73 is now open for passengers for Flight EGT 490 to J1A Ganymede Alpha and Triton. Gate 73 for Flight EGT 490.

  For the next three months, the ISF Heloise would be serving as a cruise liner, under the management of Ragnox Travel, offering sedate entertainment to middle-income tourists with time for an ambling cruise across the Inner Circles to Jupiter Settlement 1A; Ganymede Alpha.

  The passengers were, for the most part, of a generation ill at ease with the surge of advances that had made rapid expansion out to the furthest reaches of the solar system a possibility. They regarded the future with alarm and the past with longing, so Ragnox Travel offered them the past – a fictional past, mixing touches of Art Deco, Rococo and Imperial Rome. On their voyage they would be pampered, for a cost, by seventy-eight stewards, cooks, croupiers and cleaners.

  The four officers who made up the flight crew of the Heloise were merely required to look smart and efficient until Ganymede. After that, their real work would begin; ultimately the Heloise was bound for Triton Station, Neptune, with a handful of passengers youthful and bold enough to be heading that way. Tim scanned the crowd bustling on board, dismissing most of them, trying to identify the ones that mattered. One bully boy, mid-twenties, snarling at the fat lady next to him – odds on, he’d be for Triton. Tim singled out another one, a girl, slinky as a prowling Siamese cat, pushing her way with arrogant indifference through the crowd. Seriously hot.

  ‘Yes! Oh yes.’

  ‘Hands off the livestock, boy.’

  Tim swivelled round to find Commander Foxe looking down on him. Commander Foxe looked down on everyone. In his dress uniform, he looked at least three metres tall.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Tim, standing to attention.

  ‘Did you call your parents?’

  ‘Yes, sir, like you said.’

  ‘Are you going to do up those buttons?’

  ‘Yes. Right. Absolutely.’ Tim fumbled with them.

  The doors hissed and silky, silver-haired Brian McBride, Passenger Welfare Co-ordinator for Ragnox Travel, sauntered in breezily.

  ‘All geared to go?’

  Commander Foxe glanced at the last phalanx of passengers shuffling onto the ship. ‘All right, Bridey. Tell me the worst. Any nuns?’

  ‘No nuns. Tarts are another matter. I’ve been commissioned to arrange secret assignations wit
h you for Señora Consuelo, Mrs Simpson-Travis-Parker and Mrs Clunes. Don’t look at me like that. You’ve no idea what they’ve paid for the privilege.’

  ‘I can guess. Come on, what else is on the list?’

  ‘Just the average mob. Twenty-nine First Class, ninety-four also-rans. And your Triton babes, of course. Six of them this trip.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, thank you. I have their contracts. Tell me something I don’t know about them. You usually manage to extract blood in the thirty seconds it takes to check their passes.’

  ‘A pretty average Triton bunch.’ McBride stepped up to join the commander as he conjured up six faces on the nearest monitor. ‘Let’s see. He’s an orang-utan – give him a kicking. She’s a mouse, yawn. Very keen to tell me her name, so must be an alias. That one’s an alco – can’t stay upright. He’s a psycho. She’s a bitch…’ McBride studied the slinky Siamese cat’s face complacently. ‘If you want someone to spank her, I’m your man.’

  ‘Thank you, Bridey. I do the spanking on this ship. And what about him?’

  ‘Ah yes. Him.’ McBride sniffed at a long, blank face, eyes magnified by thick spectacles. ‘Yes, all right, that one’s definitely out of the ordinary. His name – it’s his real name, by the way – is David Rabiotti.’

  ‘Any connection to Michael Rabiotti?’

  ‘Son of, no less.’

  ‘Why would a Rabiotti be travelling to Triton on the Heloise?’

  ‘Yes, a mystery, isn’t it? Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘No, mine, as ever, will be better. Yes. Interesting.’ The commander perused the screen for a couple more seconds, then switched it off. ‘But the Triton contingent is my business. Time you were off to chivvy your own passengers, Bridey. You’ve only got three months to milk them dry.’

  ‘It’s all in hand.’ McBride did a quick survey of the monitors. The casino on A-Deck had its first customers. Passengers were already gathering in the B-Deck observation lounge, where the great screen had nothing to show more exciting than a parade of orange gantries, but the bar was up and running, doing healthy business. McBride rubbed his hands.

  ‘In that case, get out from under my feet.’ The commander consulted the departure schedule screen, then glanced round at his crew. ‘Gentlemen, time to go.’

  Tim’s fingertips tingled in anticipation. There would be no great roar, no whoosh, as they trundled out on automatic guidance to sling round the Moon, but this was the start. Onwards and outwards. How could college possibly compare?

  Commander Foxe tapped a button. ‘E1 Newtonia Control, this is flight EGT 490 requesting clearance for departure to EAP guidance.’

  ‘EGT 490, your departure is cleared for EAP guidance channel 9.’

  Chapter 2

  Maggy Jole’s heart beat faster as she approached the dining hall. This was where she would be truly tested. It was all very well telling herself, in the privacy of her cabin, that she had arrived because she possessed a Ragnox contract. The all-important question was whether the other passengers would acknowledge her as one of them, a Corporation Person, or would they instantly dismiss her as the imposter she was?

  Her cabin was safe, bland and anonymous, but the dining hall, on the far side of B-Deck, was another world altogether. It was too grand for her nerves. Bronze doors, framed with ornate scrollwork, opened onto a sumptuous interior. Three glittering chandeliers dangled from a ceiling edged with gilded cornices. Shameless ladies scantily draped in satin loomed out of Old Masters. The carpet was crimson, the long tables elegant with white damask and silver vases of blushing roses.

  Was she under-dressed? Had her bible, Social Graces – a Guide to Modern Manners and Etiquette, let her down? She’d spent the last few months devouring it, learning it by heart, but now the blood flamed in her cheeks at the thought that every diner in the hall must be looking at her and sniggering.

  Her very modest wardrobe had been selected along the principles laid down in Chapter 2, Appearance and Grooming. Restraint was the watchword. Uninspired respectability. Everything she had was navy blue or beige.

  She realised that she was gazing upon a sea of navy blue and beige and no passenger was glancing her way. Her pulse steadied.

  A steward stepped forward. ‘Could I have your cabin number, madam?’

  ‘Yes, B2,’ she said, busily.

  Did she catch a hint of a sneer as he ushered her forward? She had to stifle this paranoia. Of course he wasn’t sneering. She followed him to table 19.

  It was the lowest table in the hall, nearest to the kitchen, but she wouldn’t have minded if it had been in the kitchen itself, just as long as there was a place at it specifically allotted to Maggy Jole of cabin B2.

  There were just six places laid with gleaming silverware and three diners were already seated. One, a burly young man, with the good looks of a sulky gigolo, sprawled in his chair, legs apart, thumbs in his belt, studying her with an insolent leer. An older man, arms folded and quietly more dangerous, gave her a curt nod. The third, a remote, glossy girl, flicked her a dismissive glance, then resumed studying her fork with a moue of derision.

  Maggy’s panic flared up again. This was the contempt she had feared. But she’d feared it from people who embraced the respectability she strove for, and these people… Just look at them. Had they even attempted to dress for dinner? No hint of beige or respectability. The young bully wore a leather jacket, the girl was in gamin-chic designer overalls, the older man, horror of horrors, in frayed and faded T shirt and denims.

  Neither of the men rose to hold her chair for her, as dictated in Social Graces Chapter 5, so she sat herself down, nursing her distress. Did she have it all wrong, or did they?

  Another woman arrived, older, gaunt and dishevelled, wearing shades and obviously drunk. Maggy’s nostrils twitched. Why had she been put among these terrible people?

  ‘Here we are. Table 19.’ Chief Personnel Officer McBride was guiding a gangling young man with a firm but respectful hand towards the one unoccupied chair, next to Maggy. ‘Your place, sir.’

  The young man sat down.

  ‘Let me introduce your companions. Miss Maggy Jole.’

  Maggy hiccupped with pleasure that he had remembered the name she’d pressed on him at embarkation. She tried not to look too directly at the newcomer. He was disturbingly odd, but at least his dress was impeccable.

  McBride bowed towards the glossy girl. ‘Miss?’

  The girl heaved a weary sigh and drawled ‘Abigail Dieterman,’ as if the effort were almost too much trouble.

  McBride raised his brows at the bully.

  ‘Merrit Burnand.’ Another drawl, combined with a snigger.

  McBride’s manicured hand waved in the older man’s direction.

  ‘Selden,’ said the man, letting the one word escape grudgingly.

  ‘Indeed. Mr Selden. And?’ McBride waited.

  The drunk swayed, then plucked a name out of nowhere. ‘Christie Steen.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said McBride. ‘Miss Steen. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is Mr David Rabiotti.’

  David Rabiotti said nothing, did nothing.

  Maggy felt on marginally firmer ground. Chapter 3, Social Intercourse. She had been formally introduced, so she offered her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  David shook it solemnly.

  ‘Excellent.’ McBride rubbed his hands. ‘Well, Mr Rabiotti, don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.’ He glided away, to ooze over another table.

  ‘Rabiotti?’ repeated the bully, Merrit Burnand. ‘Any connection with the Rabiotti?’

  David blinked. The magnification of his thick spectacles made the gesture alarming. ‘Michael Rabiotti is my father.’

  ‘Jeez. The Michael Rabiotti?’

  ‘Michael Rabiotti is my father,’ repeated David.

  ‘Who?’ asked the girl, Abigail, stifling a yawn. ‘Oh, the physicist, I suppose.’

  ‘Yeah. The guy who practically put Ragnox in the driving seat. Christ,
he must be minting it.’ Merrit challenged David. ‘Isn’t he?’

  David looked at him, blankly.

  Maggy concentrated on her napkin. It seemed that this boy belonged alarmingly near the top of the corporate hierarchy. She had come prepared to gleam modestly, a very tiny candle among a host of others, but not to shine amongst the Gods.

  Merrit wasn’t going to let it drop. ‘You’re really Michael Rabiotti’s son? Shit!’

  Fortunately, there was no time for David to respond to the question or the command. A wave of excited whispering enveloped them as the salon erupted into important bustle.

  The parade to the Captain’s table.

  Half a dozen passengers, mostly first class, formed the select herd. One woman in emerald satin preened herself gleefully on Commander Foxe’s arm.

  Maggy’s heart fluttered, not in terror this time, but in unalloyed admiration. Commander Foxe was magnificent, tall and upright and bulky as a Field Marshall, gracious as a courtier, exuding confidence and control. His iron-grey hair and beard were immaculately clipped, his shoes immaculately polished, his pearly white uniform, resplendent with scarlet braid, immaculately pressed. Maggy trembled with delight. She couldn’t have asked for a more inspiring symbol of authority.

  There was silence on table 19. Meaningful glances were exchanged.

  The drunk, Christie Steen, finally broke the spell, her voice husky and amused. ‘At least he’ll look splendid on the bridge if we hit an iceberg.’

  Abigail Dieterman responded with her distant contemptuous smile, directed into thin air. The older man, Selden, snorted.

  Maggy sniffed disapproval. How could anyone deride the commander’s exemplary display?

  ‘Icebergs are water-borne ice bodies,’ said David Rabiotti, in a precise, expressionless voice.

  Merrit grinned. ‘No kidding. So you reckon we’re not likely to strike one? For a moment there I was worried.’ He glanced at the others for appreciation.

  ‘Icebergs are water-borne ice bodies,’ repeated David. ‘Ice bodies found in Space—’

  ‘It was a joke,’ explained Christie.

  David laughed. He laughed as if someone had turned on a laughing machine. Just as abruptly, it was switched off.