by Thorne Moore
Straight into Commander Foxe.
Dazzling uniform. Stupid, preening parade. Selden could see straight through that. But then Foxe could see straight through him too, with those cool level eyes. None of the nervous curiosity that usually confronted Selden, but then the commander would already know everything.
‘Not quite your preferred milieu, is it, Selden?’
Selden grunted. ‘I’m going. Cabin.’
‘Unwise.’ Foxe turned, accompanying him towards the door. Across the room, McBride was sauntering round the roulette table, a bouffanted court eunuch, trying not to notice the commander’s unspoken summons. He failed. Reluctantly, he skirted round the gamblers and met them at the door.
‘No complaints, I trust?’ he asked.
‘Other than your Baccarat dealer,’ said Foxe. ‘But how you swindle your passengers is your own concern, Bridey. Now you can do a favour for one of mine. Selden finds your casino too noisy. I suggest you offer him something else. A private table somewhere?’
McBride’s smarmy features slithered between greed and denial. ‘Oh, I really don’t have anything to—’
‘Bridey, you’ve got a game set up on D-Deck. Selden would like in. For the usual consideration, no doubt.’ The commander glanced at Selden.
Selden nodded.
Greed won. McBride beamed, rubbing his hands. ‘Ah, that game. Well of course I try to cater for our more committed players.’
‘Truly, you spoil them, Bridey.’ The commander bowed out. ‘I’ll leave you to negotiate the terms in private. Wouldn’t want to cramp your style.’ He glanced again at Selden. ‘Quiet enough down there. Healthier than disappearing entirely into your own shell.’
Selden nodded again.
‘So you fancy something more professional?’ suggested McBride, perking up the moment Foxe walked away. ‘Yes, D-Deck. Seven o’clock, every night. Would that sound—?’
‘How much?’ asked Selden abruptly
A smoky poker table, with no curiosity, no communication, where he could bury himself out of harm’s way for the next few months, lost in troglodyte shadows. Where else would he dare trust himself?
Chapter 4
For two weeks, the vast screen occupying one wall of the Observation Lounge had offered a view of yawning emptiness, but now it was coming alive. Traffic. Busy interweaving dots of light. They were approaching M1 Port, the principal docking station of Mars, high above the exquisite, hermetically sealed powerhouse of corporate colonisation; Platinum City. The crew began to bustle. Babble increased in intensity as the passengers geared themselves for a once in a lifetime excursion.
The excitement was so high that table 19 was the only one with its usual compliment for breakfast.
Abigail looked around the dining salon, disgusted with the seediness of it all, the ridiculous Perspex chandeliers, the gilding shedding from the cornices in large plastic flakes, the scratched reproduction art, the soup-stain motif on the carpet, the wipe-clean nylon tablecloths masking the steel canteen tables beneath.
Soon, the ultimate antidote to this squalor would be spread out before her. Platinum City – the towering corporation headquarters, the immaculate boulevards, the elegant restaurants, the exclusive clubs, the fabulous emporiums where anything, but anything, could be bought by those who didn’t need to ask the price. She only had to disembark in order to taste again the life she’d thrown away. If she so chose.
Merrit finished the last piece of toast with gusto and rocked back in his chair, hands behind his head. ‘So this is it! Our chance to get off this wreck. Who’s heading for the big city?’
No one spoke.
‘What about you, Selden?’
Selden regarded Merrit through snake eyes. ‘Why should I?’
‘Hey, this is Platinum City, we’re talking about. The real thing.’
Selden picked his teeth. ‘Is that so?’
Merrit sneered and moved on to Christie. ‘How about you?’
‘I’ve seen the real thing,’ she said, hidden behind her dark glasses. ‘It stinks.’
‘Jesus,’ said Merrit. He looked at the others.
David stared back blankly.
‘You?’ Merrit demanded of Maggy.
Miss Jole pursed her lips with genteel surprise. ‘I am booked for Triton.’
‘Christ, what has that got to do with it? We’re all booked for Triton. We’re allowed off the leash, you know. That’s Platinum City down there, for Christ’s sake! You mean you’re not even going to take a look?’
Maggy looked prim. ‘I don’t think so, thank you.’
’Jesus.’ Merrit turned to share his contempt with Abigail. ‘Looks as if it’s just you and me then, Babe. Wasted on this lot, anyway.’
Abigail glanced at her watch. ‘I’m going to the sauna.’
‘No time, darling. Platinum City is upon us.’
‘I’ve seen it,’ said Abigail. His puppy dog eagerness was too tedious for words. She pushed her coffee cup away in a petulant gesture.
Merrit was undeterred. ‘So? Let’s go see it again. Hell, it’s probably like home to you. Where do we start? We’ve only got a few hours.’
‘What do you think I am? A tourist guide for hicks?’ Abigail angrily tossed a spoon across the table.
Her contempt hit home at last. ‘Tourist guide! Well, you might be, for all I know. You’ve got fuck-all talent for anything else as far as I can see.’
‘But then there’s precious little you are capable of seeing, so you’ll excuse me for not feeling insulted.’ Abigail coolly pushed her chair back and walked away.
‘Fuck you,’ called Merrit.
In the steamy silence of the sauna, Abigail sat back, luxuriating in the restorative heat and even more therapeutic silence. All hers, hers alone. What did she need with Platinum City anymore?
She laughed mirthlessly, imagining Merrit’s swaggering pretensions exposed to the withering cynicism of the city. He’d been down there a couple of hours now. What sort of a fool was he making of himself?
The others had more sense. They knew Platinum City wasn’t for them. Abigail winced at the thought of Selden stalking around like a Neanderthal. Discreet security guards would hustle him away, the moment he tried to cross a threshold.
A vodka-soaked hobo like Christie? She’d be bundled into some disinfected cell by the sanitary police long before she could offend the sensibilities of the city’s elite.
Or David? The ambling imbecile. No, he wouldn’t be swept up, not Michael Rabiotti’s son. He’d been invited somewhere elegant, luxurious, secure. A clinic, perhaps.
And Maggy. Abigail’s glossy lip twitched at the idea of Maggy Jole in Platinum City, with her respectable suits, buttocks clenched as tightly as her purse as she trotted around Piazza Reale. But of course Maggy hadn’t gone. The poor creature didn’t have the money or the imagination to include sightseeing in her itinerary.
No, only Abigail belonged in that twenty-four carat, world-weary capital of decadence. She’d wasted her time and her father’s money in Platinum City for years, letting the world know that she was the daughter of Rolf Dieterman, Inter-corporation Liaison Director of TransSy Futures Inc, and she could do what she damn well pleased.
Daddy had always encouraged her, pacifying her bruised teachers, bullying exasperated employers, pulling strings when she’d flouted the law too openly, buying off undesirable boyfriends, arranging discreet medical care, paving his darling’s way with gold.
So how was it that she was now confined to the tawdry pleasures of a D-class Freighter en route to Triton, while Rolf Dieterman, just a few kilometres away, was ensconced behind polished steel and tinted glass in his executive suite? How many times had she sauntered into those offices and imperiously demanded to be treated to lunch at Gioconda’s or L’Univers? And he’d laughed, swept business aside and complied.
And if she sauntered in now? She recalled with sour bile their last meeting when, for the first time ever, there’d been no laughter, no compliance,
just the clash of two immovable objects. He’d succeeded too well in making her in his own image. He’d waited for her to give way. She’d waited for him.
She wasn’t going to break first. Surrender? Never.
She emerged from the sauna into a forsaken ship. Footsteps echoed down empty corridors. The claustrophobia of the Heloise was strangely intensified by its emptiness.
Would it really be surrender? Instinct told Abigail that she only had to stroll into her father’s office and demand lunch as if nothing had happened, and it would be exactly as if nothing had. The argument would be commanded out of existence. Abigail would be free again to do whatever she liked with Rolf to buy her out of every scrape. Because she was his daughter. His property.
That was the rub. He’d shown her the leash. Gilded it might be, but she wanted no more of it. She’d command her own life, her own money – assuming she could acquire some.
Abigail had never given a thought to the exacting science of economic management. Inexhaustible funds had always been on tap. Now she had to go prospecting. She had considered the options coldly.
A normal corporate career offered no guarantee that her unique, if as yet undefined, talents, would be recognised and rewarded. Marriage was an option, if she fancied exchanging one father for another, but she didn’t. Crime was tempting, but too risky. It was sure to involve trusting others, which she didn’t.
Whom could she trust? Herself. She wasn’t afraid of risk, or even of hard work, as long as the reward was substantial. There was Triton – a seven-year contract with Ragnox. Seven years was a long time in comparison with a major heist, but short compared with a corporate career structure. Little people might be terrified by the lurid and aggressive image of life in the Outer Circles, but she found it suddenly stimulating, a challenge worthy even of her. The deregulated zone, limitless free enterprise, where vast fortunes were guaranteed for all who had the guts to stay the course. The survival of the fittest.
And, of course, Ragnox was TransSy’s greatest rival. How it would add to Daddy’s gall if he discovered that she’d sold herself to the enemy, and was on her way to Triton, out of his reach forever.
It seemed such a waste that he wouldn’t know.
She found herself by the deserted hatch, looking down the tunnel into the white light of M1 Port, where shuttles were standing by. She could be at his office in an hour. Just to tell him, to watch him squirm.
No. The moment she opened her mouth, he’d take control, sorting out her mess, and her grand rebellion would fizzle out in a humiliating anti-climax. She turned away from the hatch.
The ship’s travel office stood empty and she could see, in one corner, the passenger communication booths. She could call him to say – no specifics, but she’d tell him she was going Out and he’d never see her again. She had to let him feel her revenge.
But he’d trace the call and send security to storm the ship while it was still tethered in port. Better to wait until departure was imminent. Then she’d do it.
One hour to departure. Abigail lounged in one of the coffee bars, watching as the passengers drifted back on board. Men flushed and ready to snooze, women complaining about their feet, laden with purchases.
A sullen Merrit was accompanied by Chief Officer Addo, who listened to his complaints with a polite smile and useful advice.
‘I tell you, they jumped me!’
‘You really should consider Seccor insurance. The smaller security firms seldom pick on Seccor clients.’
‘Why the hell did they pick on me? I wasn’t doing anything. Who gave them the right to levy fines anyway?’
‘I’m sure McBride will top up your credit. But I’d advise you to let the doctor look at that eye. Medical attention on board is free for B-deck passengers.’
‘Yeah, well so it fucking should be.’
It was a measure of Abigail’s inner tension that she couldn’t even raise a smile at this exchange. She waited for Merrit to disappear. He hadn’t noticed her.
She’d better make her move now. Soon there would be so many people around, flocking into the travel office, she wouldn’t be able to do anything.
As she pushed her coffee away, McBride appeared, walking up from the entrance hatch with a noticeably shifty expression and a new passenger. An alarming new passenger. Energetic, fit, young. The stranger was wearing an anonymous grey suit and carried civilian monogrammed luggage, but everything else about him, his stride, his posture, his clean-cut appearance, his humourless eyes, his excessively short hair, screamed Seccor.
‘Not my remit, of course, Mr – er – Smith.’ McBride sounded anxious. ‘Triton contracts are strictly Commander Foxe’s concern, but as this is a last-minute arrangement—’
‘The ship was in dock. It seemed pointless to wait,’ said Smith briskly, sharp eyes scanning the corridor, taking in the shops, the offices, Abigail… The gaze returned, hovering on her for the merest fraction of a second before moving away.
McBride was smiling nervously. ‘Of course, of course. If you’d like to step this way, I’ll see if you can speak to Commander Foxe at once. You have the necessary authorisations?’
‘I do.’ Smith slapped a pocket as he followed McBride to the elevators.
Abigail sank back in her seat, stunned. This Smith was surely an undercover Seccor agent. Police or Military or Intelligence; it didn’t matter. He had come aboard to speak with Commander Foxe about Triton contracts.
The explanation was obvious. Her father had set Seccor hounds on her trail. This Smith had already identified her and now he was going to drag her ignominiously off the Heloise, like some child to be rescued from her own tantrums.
Unspeakable! It certainly wasn’t beyond her father’s means, paying for the best to bring her to heel, but how dare he treat her with such public contempt!
Whatever happened, she wasn’t going to face the humiliation of arrest on board the Heloise. She’d disembark now, call her father, yes, but not from the ship. How long before this Smith would be breathing down her neck? Did she have time to make it down to Platinum City? Better to use the communication facilities at M1 Port.
She strode, head high, against the tide of passengers who were now swarming back onto the Heloise. She must be off the ship. Secret agent Smith and the crew could run in circles looking for her, and all the while she’d be chatting with her father, telling him that she’d drop by to meet him for lunch in an hour or so. Her return would be entirely on her own terms. All her father’s efforts and expense to track her down and drag her back would be for nothing, because she would saunter in of her own accord, unrepentant and untamed.
In the minimalist surroundings of M1 Port, a Zen-like tranquillity prevailed. A murmuring announcement directed passengers to return to Flight EGT 490 now. Last call. Hatches would close in five minutes.
Let them close. She was free of the Heloise, heading for the communications office. Now all she had to do was call her father.
Abigail stood motionless in the booth, staring blankly at the screen. Somewhere, Flight EGT 490 was being mentioned, but she heard only the painful pounding in her ears. There was a prickling in her eyes and she realised, with a churning horror, that she was on the verge of tears.
‘All right, Miss Dieterman,’ said a deep, reassuring voice. A hand took her card and slipped it into her pocket as a protective arm encompassed her and guided her firmly onto the walkway, drawing her, unresisting, towards the yawning hatch of the Heloise. In a dream she allowed herself to be hurried along.
Curious eyes watched, approving the sight of a captain in full regalia solicitously comforting a distraught passenger. No doubting Abigail was distraught. Her face was white, her eyes blurred.
Almost at the hatch, she recovered her senses and jerked back from the fatherly embrace, but it continued unfaltering, as if Commander Foxe had anticipated a burst of hysteria.
‘Not now, Miss Dieterman. We are gearing up for departure. Arguments will have to wait.’
‘H
ow dare you!’ Abigail raised a hand, but her wrist was taken and she was half propelled, half carried into the ship. The hatch hissed shut at their heels. Commander Foxe kept walking, indifferent to her struggles, down the corridor, past a couple of startled passengers, and into the swaying form of Christie Steen.
Abigail tried to claw. Christie, wincing, received Abigail in her arms.
‘Miss Dieterman is distressed, Miss Steen. I’m sure you can deal with her.’ Unceremoniously, Foxe strode away to resume command of the ship.
Abigail was shaking. The commander’s treatment had come like a slap on the face. Shock gave way to anguish and she collapsed with a sob that came from the pit of her stomach. She was blindly conscious of Christie standing over her. Did she have to hover like a drunken zombie?
The zombie came to life, pulling Abigail up with a sigh. ‘I suppose I’d better get you to your room.’
By the time they reached B-Deck, Abigail was walking unaided, drained of resistance. At her cabin door, her trembling began again. Christie sighed, pushed her further along to her own cabin, B5, and opened the door.
‘Drink,’ she said.
Abigail stared at half a dozen bottles scattered round the chaotic room.
Christie was unscrewing a vodka bottle. ‘I need it if you don’t. And I think you do.’ She handed Abigail a mug.
Abigail stared into it with revulsion, but she took a sip. Then another. It worked. She threw her head back with her usual arrogance. ‘You needn’t think—’
‘I don’t think anything,’ interrupted Christie.
‘What happened is my business.’
‘I really don’t care. I’m not the caring kind.’
‘I don’t need a caring kind!’
‘Just as well then.’ Maybe it was the girl’s stiff, childish defiance that prompted Christie to add, ‘What happened?’
Abigail put the mug down on a cupboard; it was an excuse to turn away. ‘I called my father,’ she said to the wall.
‘And?’
‘That’s it.’
‘He’s Rolf Dieterman?’
‘You’ve heard of him?