by Thorne Moore
‘One of the hard men of TransSy.’
Abigail turned back to stare at her. Christie had more than heard of him, that was obvious. There was someone inside the drunken tramp who knew and dealt with people like Rolf Dieterman. Someone who understood the world of hard men. Abigail hated her, resented that she had some sort of claim on Abigail’s territory.
‘You don’t know anything!’ She snatched her mug up and took another drink.
‘What did he say?’ asked Christie.
‘Nothing. Nothing! His PA said he was busy and couldn’t be disturbed.’
There was no response.
‘She said if I had any business with Mr Dieterman, I should contact his personal affairs secretary, who would assess my application.’ Abigail raised her head to howl at the ceiling.
‘I see.’ Christie refilled her mug.
Abigail put a hand to her mouth to stifle more sobs. The PA had been sibilant with delight at the chance to pay Dieterman’s daughter back for a hundred casual slights, but she would never have dared, if the message had not been dictated by her father. By a man who knew his daughter would come cringing back.
‘Sounds like Dieterman,’ said Christie. She spoke with something approaching sympathy. ‘But not the Rolf Dieterman you know, I suppose.’
‘You don’t understand.’ Suddenly anger overwhelmed all other emotions. ‘He wanted me to grovel so he could spurn me. And I wasn’t grovelling!’
‘Just saying goodbye?’
‘No. Yes!’ Abigail hesitated. ‘I wasn’t going to be forced back. I’d go back if I chose. That was all. Or I’d go to Triton if I chose.’
Christie’s eyebrows rose above her dark glasses. ‘Which you have chosen. It must have been a hell of a row that caused that.’
‘He had no right…’ Abigail bit her lip.
‘What was the argument about?’
‘He told me to get a job!’ said Abigail indignantly.
Christie laughed. ‘Well, you certainly did.’
‘Get a job and stick to it!’ he’d said, in that tone of cutting command he used on his minions. As if she were nobody. As if he had no more patience with her. Why? So she’d ordered a little cocaine on his account. Nothing that she hadn’t done a thousand times before.
When Rolf Dieterman dismissed her, Abigail found herself on her own, for the first time in her life. She decided it was liberating. She’d never doubted that she could look out for herself, take whatever she wanted, until this call from M1 Port had cut the ground from under her. He really didn’t care. Whatever Agent Smith was up to, he hadn’t been sent to drag her home. She could go to hell and no one would lift a finger.
Desperation welled up, but it had no focus. What did she want? To escape? To go on? To go back? She didn’t know. All she could do was wash her face, repair her make-up, don her supercilious shell, and go out to dinner as normal.
Commander Foxe was already enthroned at the captain’s table. He wasn’t looking Abigail’s way, but she felt her carefully staged composure slip. He’d virtually kidnapped her. There’d been something frighteningly possessive in his grip. How dare he claim her when her own father would not?
She turned to table 19. The gang. Even Christie was there on time, looking up as Abigail approached and nodding. Abigail felt compelled to acknowledge her, but she ignored the rest, determined to avoid their eyes. She couldn’t cope with their banal conversation, not at this meal.
But she couldn’t ignore the final diner who followed her to the table
Smith.
She sat stiffly, refusing to react as he strode up, seized a vacant chair and addressed the assembled company.
‘John Smith.’ Very smooth, very proper, very direct. ‘Booked to Triton. I understand we’ll all be travelling together.’
‘Oh, how do you do?’ Maggy was positively glowing at this display of manners. ‘I’m Maggy Jole.’
Smith shook her hand as if to dislocate her shoulder, but the pathetic girl would probably welcome a dozen shattered bones as the price for a respectable fellow-traveller.
Abigail forced herself to be indifferent while Maggy impeccably performed introductions round the table. Smith was no concern of hers.
He was obviously a concern to everyone else though. They were all watching him with wary curiosity, Merrit sullen and hostile; Selden, arms folded, more menacing than usual; David more tongue-tied than ever; Christie reaching for her vodka bottle like a defensive weapon.
Smith was studying them all frankly, beaming at each in turn.
‘Do you have a Ragnox contract?’ asked Maggy politely.
‘Indeed yes. I signed on just yesterday. They did propose booking me onto a ship due in M1 in another three weeks, but the Heloise was in port, so I said I was perfectly happy to embark immediately.’
‘Oh, you were very wise.’ Maggy looked ridiculously pleased with herself. ‘The Heloise is a very good berth.’ As if she were an expert.
‘Couldn’t see any point in hanging around. I like to be up and doing.’
‘And what exactly is it you intend to be up and doing on the Heloise?’ asked Christie.
Smith’s smile was ingenuous. ‘In the immediate future, getting myself kitted out. Health checks, that sort of thing.’
‘In preparation for Triton.’
‘Absolutely. Excellent prospects, I understand.’
‘Oh sure!’ Merrit was glowering.
‘Speciality?’ asked Selden. Unusual for him to venture an unprompted contribution, but he seemed as wary of Smith as the rest.
‘Nexus analysis.’ Smith rubbed his hands. ‘Ah, soup. Excellent.’
‘The food is very good on the Heloise,’ said Maggy.
‘Shit,’ said Merrit under his breath.
Smith turned his attention to Abigail. ‘You joined the ship at Platinum City too?’
‘No.’ He hadn’t responded in any way to the name Dieterman, but then he wouldn’t, because her father hadn’t hired him. Whatever Smith was, she hated him.
She sensed Merrit shifting cautiously, seeking an ally against this dangerous interloper. Abigail met his conspiratorial smirk, then turned away with pained contempt.
Merrit stiffened. ‘Na, she came with us from Newtonia. Wouldn’t think she’d mix with common muck like us, would you?’
Abigail refused to respond, even with a flicker of her eyelids.
‘I trust we’ll have a pleasant trip.’ Smith suavely smoothed over the barbs. ‘I’m told the voyage will take eleven months.’
‘Give or take a few detours,’ said Selden.
Maggy looked seriously alarmed. ‘The itinerary states that it will take 350 days from Newtonia. It’s quite specific.’
‘Why are you bothered?’ asked Selden. ‘You’ll have your seven years on Triton. What does it matter how long it takes you to get there?’
‘Maybe some of us want to come back still young enough to spend our millions,’ sneered Merrit.
‘You’ll have spent yours before you even get there,’ retorted Abigail. ‘Or you’ll meekly hand it over to the first security guard who confiscates it.’ She didn’t know why she’d bothered to say it. She just had to say something, spill the bile.
It hit home. Merrit reddened, rigid with pent-up anger and humiliation. ‘Well fuck you, you bitch!’
In cold despair, Abigail tipped her soup over him.
Chapter 5
Sergeant Roper’s footsteps halted outside the cell door.
Merrit’s stomach lurched. It had been lurching since they put him in this place. The cell wasn’t nasty in itself. Discounting the hatch in the door where his meals were delivered, it was almost identical to his cabin. But the door was locked, and that brought on all his worst nightmares. Here he was again, persecuted and tormented. Would he never escape? It wasn’t fair.
One swing, Merrit had taken. One lousy swing. What was he supposed to do when that cow, Abigail Dieterman, threw her soup at him? Sit there and take it? It wasn’t his fault t
hat McBride had got in the way. Anyone could see that he hadn’t intended to break the man’s arm.
Nobody picked on Abigail, of course. She’d coolly marched off. Merrit would have escaped too, if that bastard Smith hadn’t tripped him and pinned him, half-throttled, until Commander Foxe was standing over him and the world turned black.
Evil psychopath bastard!
Seven fucking days in lock-up. Who did Foxe think he was? Merrit had a contract with Ragnox. He was going to work for Jordan Pascal. See what Pascal would have to say about this outrage against one of his men!
Merrit wiped his nose, waiting for the hatch to open and his breakfast to come through.
Instead, the door began to open.
But it wasn’t Sergeant Roper. It was Commander Foxe, arms folded.
Merrit cringed.
‘Learned your lesson, do you think, Mr Burnand?’ asked Foxe.
The commander hadn’t actually used violence on him, before handing him to Roper, but then that very brief interview had taken place under the eyes of a hundred diners. Now they were alone.
But the door was open, and Sergeant Roper was busy in the office beyond with a couple of passengers. Witnesses added to Merrit’s mortification, but they gave him sufficient confidence to struggle up and attempt a contemptuous swagger.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
Foxe’s eyes were drilling straight through Merrit. He dropped the swagger. The commander had the monopoly on contempt.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Now, you will go and apologise to Officer McBride.’
In drawing breath, Merrit contemplated refusal. Then he wisely changed his mind. ‘Yes, sir.’
Foxe smiled. ‘And then we’ll forget all about it.’
‘Pray, enter.’ The purser’s unctuous voice summoned Merrit into his office.
McBride was at his desk, making a show of being busy and demonstrating how the sling on his right arm hampered his efficiency.
‘Ah, Mr Burnand. You’re out and about again, I see.’ He pointedly offered his left hand.
‘Yeah. Sorry about that business.’ Was that a sufficient apology? ‘Don’t know my own strength sometimes.’
‘And accidents will happen. Well, we’ve certainly missed you around the ship. Your merry quips. Dinners have been quite dull without you.’
Merrit suspected sarcasm, but he shrugged.
‘And now, I expect you’ve come for your next credit top-up.’
Ah. Now the man was talking! ‘Yeah, well, I could do with a couple of thou, maybe.’
‘Excellent. The casino has been far too quiet this last week. Not many of our passengers know how to stretch its full potential. The staff will be keen to see you again. A gambler with true nerve and daring, if I may say so.’
Merrit smirked.
‘Although…’ McBride hesitated. ‘I do wonder if a player of your calibre finds our casino a little tame. Would I be right?’
Merrit laughed. McBride was right on the button there. Tame? That was a polite word for it. A bunch of geriatrics, all in a twitter if they won a couple of IMU, running for cover the moment they lost. Pathetic.
‘I could offer you something a little bit more challenging.’ McBride peered round him to ensure the door was closed. ‘There is a game – a private game, nightly, on D-Deck. For serious players, you understand.’
‘D – yeah, right.’ Merrit didn’t know there was a D-Deck.
‘There is a matter of the buy-in, of course. Five thousand—’
‘Five!’
‘Which would come out of your credit advance, so no problem there.’
‘No, sure, right.’
‘So, would you be interested, Mr Burnand?’
‘Would I!’
A stark light flickered momentarily, shifting shadows in the dank storeroom. No frills on D-Deck. No concessions to comfort in this claustrophobic broom cupboard.
The chairs were hard but the six men at the folding table, befogged in tobacco smoke, were far too intent on their game to notice the lack of comfort. The whisky bottles on the workbench provided the only distraction. They were at work.
And here was Merrit, one of them, just as he’d longed to be, shifting his weight on his numb buttocks and striving to look as if long hours of choking smoke, raw whisky and taciturn company was his idea of bliss.
He looked around at his companions, all types he recognised from prison; hard, humourless and not to be messed with. Being one of them meant survival.
They were all professional gamblers. Selden, bleak as ever, looked more at home down here, among other automata. No pretence about Selden, a jailbird running from a savage past. Under the bright, caged light he was wan despite his muscular build, his hair even greyer. He played with the indifference of despair.
‘You in?’ It was the first thing anyone had said for so long, excepting grunts and coughs, that Merrit started. He felt stiff, miserable as he threw in his ante.
How exactly had he come to this?
Once upon a time there had been a little boy with dreams. Dreams of glory and glamour. Not dreams of choking to death in the bowels of a D-class freighter on his way to the most God-forsaken colony in the System. Something had gone terribly wrong.
He’d had ability, drive, a modicum of charm and the all-important corporate connections. His father, Harvel Burnand, an Astromarina engineer, had died en route from an asteroid colony, in a tragic decompression accident. Astromarina had declared him a hero and persuaded his widow not to raise questions about the safety record of the ship.
Astromarina patronage was guaranteed for the son. The corporation paid for his education and demanded indulgence from teachers. His earliest aptitude tests demonstrated perfect corporate material – reasonable academic progress, burly fitness, a loud assertiveness that passed for leadership, and an eagerness to grab at anything on offer, which could be interpreted as enterprise and resourcefulness.
It was after college, when he was slipped effortlessly into a position in Carbinier, one of Astromarina’s subsidiaries, that the track began to buckle. One moment he’d been the golden leader among his school peers, the next he was the department dogsbody. No longer the bee’s knees, or the cat’s whiskers, just the donkey’s arse. It wasn’t what he had signed up for; not what the world had promised. So he complained. He complained about his work, his rewards, and worst of all, he complained about his colleagues.
Their revenge had been simple. Everyone pilfered the petty cash – they encouraged him to do the same. They egged him on until his fingers were sticky beyond any hope of denial, then they reported him.
He could have expected demotion or, at the worst, dismissal, but the timing was catastrophic. Corruption had been uncovered in the Carbinier boardroom. Examples had to be made. The mailed fist came down hard.
Merrit emerged from two years in a Seccor penitentiary with recurring nightmares and important lessons learned: the world was out to get him, nothing was fair, and the only winners in life were complete bastards. He rewrote his own history – father, teachers, colleagues transmogrified into spiteful, jealous ogres, bent on hindering his advance. Now he’d had enough of little people. He was going where men of his calibre could shine, where his talents would be recognised and he could once more be the golden boy of the school playground.
And this was it. A poker game on D-Deck of the Heloise, with just about enough chips for one more hand, unless he won. But he wouldn’t win. He was never going to win. For the first time he acknowledged it, though pride kept him in his place. He’d have to lose this hand and then go humbly to McBride to ask for more credit.
He glanced surreptitiously at his watch as the first cards were dealt. For God’s sake, did they never go to bed?
A king. The nearest thing to a promising deal he’d had all night. Furtively he peeked at his down cards. Another king. And another. Merrit’s heart missed a beat, then began to race. He froze, desperate to stop the twitch in his cheek. Then he panicked. Had his sudden
ly stilled breathing given the game away? He looked up with a snarl as one of the engineers lit up yet another foul cigarette, waving away the cloud of bitter smoke to account for any oddness in his manner. The engineer stared back and exhaled more smoke in his face. Of the others, only Selden seemed to notice the exchange. He glanced at Merrit for a moment with a curled lip, then returned to his own cards.
Seldon had an ace. He led, tossing in 20 IMU, twice his usual. The next player folded, the next two called, the fourth, with a mere eight of hearts showing, raised twenty.
Merrit stared at his 20 IMU chips – all six of them. He had a winning hand. For the first time in his life, he had a winning hand. Fingers shaking, he tossed in two chips. Seldon added one.
Keep breathing, stop shaking. Next cards dealt. Seldon had another ace. Nothing alarming for the next three. Merrit received – a king. This wasn’t happening. Four kings. No one could beat it, surely. Unless Seldon had four aces. Merrit felt a whimper of stress building up inside him. He wanted to wipe the beads of sweat clustering on his face, but he didn’t dare.
Seldon tossed two chips into the pot. 40 IMU. Merrit could cover it, just as long of no one raised again. Another player folded. The others called. Merrit added his two chips.
Next deal. A seven to Selden, a five, a jack… An ace to Merrit! Selden couldn’t have all four. Merrit would win. Please, just let them all fold.
Seldon flicked in three chips. 60 IMU. Merrit’s heart stopped. No! He only had 40 left.
The others, appearing to notice nothing, were still considering their moves as the door opened and McBride came in, whistling softly, with a tray of whisky bottles to replenish their supply.
‘You see, gentlemen, I haven’t forgotten you.’
One of the players folded and looked up with a grunt. No one else responded.
Merrit struggled to keep his voice calm. ‘Oh, McBride, as you’re here—’
‘Yes, Mr Burnand.’ McBride put the tray down. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’m running a bit low. It would save time if I could arrange some more credit now.’
‘Ah.’ McBride, his sling long discarded, lit a cigarette. ‘Well now, we’ve reached a slight financial impasse, Mr Burnand. I’m afraid you’re at your limit.’