by Thorne Moore
Maggy glanced at him in apprehension. Socially he might be right, but the rest of him was all wrong. Was she doomed to sit by him for the entire voyage? Fortunately, a waitress, wheeling a trolley, relieved the tension. She began to pass bowls of soup along the table, then three carafes; red wine, white wine and water.
Abigail wearily tried her soup, pulled a disgusted face and put her spoon down.
Equally determined to find fault, Merrit grimaced as he tried the wine. ‘Christ, is this what they expect us to drink?’ Nevertheless he drank it. He also finished his soup. So did David, automatically and unaware. Selden ate fast without complaint. Christie Steen drank much, ate little and looked desperate for a cigarette.
Maggy had no complaints about the soup. It was satisfyingly bland and she was blithely engaged in a bowl and spoon handling exercise as laid down in Chapter 5. If there was one thing that gave her confidence, it was the knowledge that she could handle cutlery correctly.
‘Dear God,’ yawned Abigail. ‘Does this mean we’re stuck together for the remainder of the voyage?’ She glanced around her table 19 companions with a pained grimace.
Merrit turned to leer at the diners at other tables. ‘At least they didn’t dump us with the old crones. Anyone fancy swapping for another table?’
If she could have done without unseemly fuss, Maggy would have jumped at the chance. The bulk of passengers, representing everything she strove for, were infinitely preferable to this disparate collection of tramps and spoilt brats who took such pride in not belonging.
‘They must’ve calculated we’re the only ones young enough to survive the voyage.’ Merrit smirked at Selden. ‘Some of us.’
‘We’re all B-Deck,’ said Selden. ‘Triton.’ He bit the words and made no attempt to explain further.
Christie refilled her glass. ‘The others will only be going as far as Ganymede. They’re keeping us Tritonees penned together, so we don’t contaminate the living.’ Despite the slurred voice, she sounded suspiciously authoritative. ‘You are all heading for Triton?’
‘Yes,’ said Maggy. ‘I have a contract with Ragnox.’ Only she could hear the fanfare.
‘Oh Christ,’ said Merrit. ‘Not just the voyage. Stuck together for the seven years.’ He glanced at David. ‘You too?’
David blinked.
‘You – for – Triton?’ Merrit, never one to waste an easy target, mouthed each word as if addressing an idiot.
‘I am travelling to Triton where I confidently expect to fulfil a seven-year contract in the quantum-physics research department,’ said David, and blinked again.
‘Shit,’ said Merrit.
Silence descended again. The soup was followed by beef or chicken. Maggy chose the chicken. She couldn’t go wrong with chicken. Unless it had strange spices. She nibbled a piece cautiously. Perfect. Every bit as bland as the soup.
‘Call this beef?’ demanded Merrit, his mouth full. ‘Christ knows what the rest of the ship has to offer if this is the best they can do for dinner.’
Maggy swallowed daintily. She’d read the brochure and here was an opening for comfortably anodyne conversation. ‘Actually, the Heloise is better equipped than many D-Class ships. I understand they don’t all have film theatres or libraries.’
‘Libraries? Oh great. We go to school?’ Merrit contemptuously reloaded his fork.
Abigail heaved another dreary sigh. ‘I don’t suppose they have a pool.’
‘No, but they do have a gym on B-Deck and a sauna on C.’
‘That’s something, I suppose.’
‘Casino,’ said Selden.
Merrit’s eyes lit up. ‘Now that’s what I called a well-equipped ship.’
Christie pushed her plate away, barely touched. ‘Ragnox Travel provides a casino on every ship it charters. It’s the most efficient means of fleecing its customers. Ragnox believes in efficiency.’
‘If it thinks it’s going to fleece me, it’s in for a nasty surprise,’ said Merrit coolly.
Maggy noticed Selden and Christie exchanging glances. She wasn’t impressed either. She had 28.4 International Monetary Units to last her the entire voyage, the last of her little nest egg. It had seemed such a generous sum when she’d received it, but most had gone on purchasing the clothes she’d need for Triton, the necessary medical precautions, the shuttle fare to Newtonia. When she’d changed the remainder of her parochial currency into IMUs, her balance had suddenly dwindled into pathetic insignificance. She wasn’t going to part with any of it if she didn’t have to. Certainly, she wasn’t going to risk it in a casino.
‘What crap comes next?’ Merrit challenged the waitress who was clearing their plates.
‘A compote of tropical fruits with creme glacé, or Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte.’
‘Yeah?’
‘A little predictable I’m afraid, Mr Burnand.’ McBride appeared at the waitress’s side. ‘Our regulars have palpitations if we spring surprises on them. But no doubt, once the voyage is underway, we’ll be able to arrange a little variation for our more sophisticated passengers.’
‘Especially the wine,’ said Merrit with a smirk.
McBride gave an understanding chuckle. ‘Don’t forget there’s a wide range available from the bars and you can purchase your own for the table.’
‘Great. At a discount I suppose.’
Maggy looked with grim determination at the water carafe. It was clearly stated that meals were included. She’d be happy with water. Wine tasted dangerously exotic, though she would school herself to drink it if necessary. Gin was her preferred choice, but water would be fine.
‘I’m afraid not, Mr Burnand,’ said McBride. ‘Naturally, most facilities on this ship are subject to charge, but don’t forget that as Ragnox-sponsored passengers, you are entitled to credit – to be paid off, eventually, when your contract expires. By which time, the paltry amounts this ship takes off you will hardly be worth your notice.’
‘How much can we have?’ asked Merrit, eagerly.
‘Enough to keep you in fine wines all the way, Mr Burnand. If you’d care to visit the bank after this meal, I’ll see to it that your initial hundred units are uploaded to your accounts.’
‘I should think so,’ said Merrit, rubbing his hands.
Maggy pursed her lips. Her financial worries slipped away. The ship was bustling with shops, salons, bars and boutiques, which she had intended, resolutely, to ignore, but if she had money to spend… On the other hand, debts were debts. She would treat herself, but very cautiously.
Merrit grinned gleefully at David. ‘Don’t suppose you’ll need the credit, Rabiotti.’
David swallowed.
‘Triton’s where you go to get rich, but you’re already loaded, so why are you going?’ Merrit speared a piece of the chocolate sponge the waitress had chosen for him.
They all turned their curious gaze on David.
David said, ‘I am travelling to Triton where I confidently expect to fulfil a seven-year contract in the quantum-physics research department.’
‘Right. Get it.’ Merrit sat back, grinning. ‘Daddy’s dumping the family idiot out there, that it?’
David’s magnified eyes slowly came to rest on Merrit. ‘My father has many acquaintances on Triton.’
Maggy concentrated on her fruit salad and ice-cream, while the others exchanged looks of mirth or pity. This was so difficult. David was clearly someone with very influential connections, but it was equally clear he simply wasn’t normal.
Merrit stretched, working his muscles. ‘I can tell you, I never let my father push me around. I dumped him years ago.’
‘Must have been a blessed release,’ said Christie.
‘Sure,’ said Merrit. ‘And he’s really going to have his nose rubbed in the shit when I come back. Him and all the other bastards. Seven years and I’m going to walk all over them.’
Selden thrust back his chair impatiently. The violence of the movement made Maggy jump. For a moment she was convinced he was about to
attack Merrit. Merrit clearly thought it too. He shrank perceptibly. Instead, Selden got up and walked away. He remembered, at the last moment, to give another minimal nod to the company.
‘What’s eating him?’ said Merrit.
‘Maybe he’s having second thoughts about Triton,’ said Abigail. ‘If you ask me, he’s too old for the challenge. Probably terrified. You have to be young to have guts.’
‘Didn’t look too terrified to me,’ said Christie.
‘It was bluster,’ said Merrit, knowledgeably. ‘What’s the betting he’ll turn and run back to his old woman as soon as we reach Mars? Christ, pathetic. I’ll tell you, nothing would drag me back. People are going to see me make it big.’
Maggy neatly spooned up a cherry. There was no vitriol driving her, no one she wished to pay back, so she couldn’t draw any parallels between Merrit’s aspirations and her own. She was still wondering if David might be a useful source that she could tap to mask her agonising inexperience. She had no knowledge of the Inner Circles, let alone the deregulated zone.
‘I suppose you must have been Out many times,’ she suggested, sipping her water.
‘Not Out.’ David stared at her, tilting his head to one side, then to the other. ‘In.’
‘Oh.’ Maggy hastily concentrated on a square of peach.
‘Nor me,’ said Merrit. ‘One snivelling trip to M2, that’s all they ever allowed me. Now things are going to change.’ He turned to Abigail. ‘How about you?’
‘Of course I’ve never been Out,’ said Abigail, scornfully. ‘I’ve been stuck on Earth or in Platinum City, like a puppy on a lead. Now I’ll go where I choose.’
‘Right.’
‘I have never been Out either,’ volunteered Maggy.
‘No, well somehow I never imagined you had,’ sneered Merrit. ‘Not quite your kind of place, is it?’
‘And what kind of place do you think it is?’ asked Christie.
‘It’s free!’ said Abigail.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Merrit. ‘No petty rules, nothing to hold you back if you want to get on – if you’ve got guts and drive.’ He glanced at Christie and snickered. ‘What are you expecting it to be?’
Christie’s pale lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. ‘I’m expecting it to be a wonderfully big adventure.’
‘Pathetic,’ said Merrit.
Maggy emerged from the emporium clasping her purchases with guilty satisfaction. Two silver photo frames and a magazine with glossy photos. At every meal in the gilded dining hall, her aspirations were cruelly buffeted, but here in the busy shops on C-Deck, with credit at her command, she felt accepted, a child of a Corporation, just like the crowd around her. It was all she’d ever wanted, because she understood, with the painful clarity of an outsider, what it meant not to belong.
She would demonstrate how much she belonged; how valuable she could be.
Glowing signs directed the bustling shoppers to a dozen destinations – the theatre, the bank, the Ragnox Travel office, the elevators to the casino. There was the one she wanted: the Seccor Police office.
She trotted along the curving thoroughfare. There were things she could tell. One of the stewards had pocketed a watch, left at a dining table. Merrit Burnand had drugs sewn into his jacket lining, so they must be unlicensed. A C-Deck passenger had made disparaging remarks about Ragnox directors. Maggy could quote him, word for word. She had very special gifts of memory and observation. She had been told this. Her snippets of information might not be of any great value, but someone ought to know.
The Seccor office was empty. A notice advised passengers that Seccor Police Sergeant Roper was in attendance on this voyage, but there was no sign of him.
It was disappointing. She sat down at the missing sergeant’s desk, touched his screen, tidied files. Nothing wrong with her being there. In a way, she almost had a right to be there. She’d done so much for Seccor, hadn’t she? Enough to earn her a Ragnox contract and the promise of riches on Triton. She could do more.
Out on the thoroughfare, a passing figure caught her eye. Tall, dignified, imposing. In uniform.
She rushed out.
‘Commander Foxe!’
He stopped in mid stride, swivelled round on his heel, to attention. ‘Miss Jole.’
He knew her name! She glowed. How could he know her name, of all the passengers on his ship?
‘Commander Foxe, there are things I think I ought to report.’
‘Are there, indeed?’ He gestured her to accompany him. ‘Tell me all about them, Miss Jole.’
Chapter 3
His cybercard informed the world he was Ragnox 2015798, engineer, next of kin: none. A month earlier, before the anonymity of the Triton contract claimed him, the card had been a little more expansive: Seldon, Peter, 43, divorced, convicted, sentence served, but Triton had no need for such unnecessary trivia. It obliterated old identities, and that was fine by him.
Would it help his jabbering fellow travellers to see on record that he was a convicted killer? They could already read it in his dead eyes, in his perpetually tense stance. And reading it, they would keep away if they had any sense. He glanced at his gun, lying within easy reach of his pillow, meticulously cleaned. He wouldn’t need it on the first part of this voyage, the fatuous pleasure trip to Ganymede, but old habits die hard. In his case they’d fed into his DNA, which was why the gun was always ready and why the other passengers did well to avoid him.
He sat back on the bed with a glass of whisky, staring into space.
Cabin B1 was stark and impersonal, worn but functional. This was all he wanted: a berth on a voyage Out, beyond Jupiter, beyond civilisation, beyond warmth and light and life, to the only place he belonged.
Eleven months to Triton. Not so very long when time was meaningless, one day exactly like another, promising nothing, leading nowhere. He’d be content to remain in his cabin for the entire voyage, sitting and staring, but that would arouse curiosity, and intrusive enquiries would provoke a response from him that he couldn’t predict. Best to avoid the temptation. Emerge every now and again to go through some meaningless pantomime, to convince others of the big lie, that he was a human being like them. All he had to do was fasten down the pressure valve, speak if he had to, and try, if possible, to hurt no one.
He finished his whisky, pocketed his card and headed out, pausing by the elevators, deciding which way to go. Not down to the commercial babble of C-Deck. The gym, perhaps? Not on this leg of the voyage. It would be cluttered with overweight middle-managers comparing notes on exercise regimes none of them would follow for more than a week.
Up then, to the casino, the one public area where compulsive silence and tense concentration were permitted. He stalked into the bright hall, buying chips without a word. A waiter brought him a drink and he settled to play, losing himself in the impersonal intricacies of calculation and chance, blocking out the babble of voices.
‘I’ve had enough.’ Funny how that one voice could penetrate his most determined deafness. The Dieterman girl. Not that her voice was loud. It merely vibrated with supreme egotism, a brazen symphony of Self. Without looking round, he absorbed the predictable sigh of insufferable boredom and the predictable response.
‘Yeah, it’s pathetic, this place, isn’t it? Jesus, none of them really know how to play.’
‘So tame.’
‘Old farts, the lot of them. They probably lie awake at night worrying about their losses.’
‘How much did you lose?’
‘Who’s counting?’ Merrit snickered.
Selden smiled grimly, feeling Abigail’s contempt in the silence that followed. He could picture her elegant eyebrow arching disdainfully, though Merrit wouldn’t notice, any more than he’d notice the glances between croupiers or the mirthful scrutiny of Purser McBride, as Merrit poured limitless libations into the gaping maw of the house. Stupid fool.
The blackjack dealer was waiting for Selden. He nodded. Nothing to lose except money and that no longer mea
nt anything to him. Let it all go. Except that, unlike Merrit, he’d made some modest gains.
Along the table a blousy woman in bangles spilt her cocktail as she leaned forward to place a bet and burst into a peel of giggles.
‘Oo, whoopsie, silly me, darling. No drinky left. Who’s going to be a gentleman and get me another?’
Selden ignored her, concentrating harder on his game.
To his right two bulky players were exchanging dirty jokes, convinced he must be listening. One nudged him in the ribs and winked.
Selden caught the offending elbow in a vice-like grip. With a monumental effort, he refrained from doing more.
‘Hey! No offence!’
Selden let go.
Behind him, Abigail was yawning still. ‘God, I’m so bored! I’ll die if I don’t get a dream soon.’
‘You want to go down to the happy store?’
‘Useless! I’m over my quota.’
‘Already?’ Merrit’s squeak of astonishment transformed itself into a knowing snigger. ‘Then, hey, I can help you.’
‘What have you got? Eights? Coke?’
‘I’ve got Lucies.’
‘Oh for God’s sake! Well, it’s better than nothing, I suppose. Got some here?’
‘You kidding, darling! Back in my cabin.’
Suddenly their fatuous, pampered stupidity was too much for Selden. The cards crumpled in his hand. His dealer stepped back, hand hovering over a panic button, terrified by the rigidity of the muscles in Selden’s jaw, his neck, his wrist.
Eleven months of this, of petulant princesses and stupid boys, their pathetic whining driving him mad. He had to get out. Gathering up his winnings he rose abruptly and turned, facing the spoiled children.
They registered his presence for the first time. Merrit turned pale, Abigail dismissive, as if Selden had no right to share her universe. Well, he had no wish to share it. Get them out of his sight before he was tempted to break their silly little necks.
He took a step. Merrit flinched. Selden brushed him forcibly aside and moved away. Away from this whole babbling set-up.