Inside Out

by Thorne Moore

  ‘So it’s a fairly regular surprise then.’

  ‘Regular as clockwork. Surprise ball, surprise canapés, surprise band. McBride organises it all. We just turn up, looking keen.’ Siegfried’s lugubrious features forced themselves into an agonised smile. ‘We dance.’

  Smith laughed. In this hocus charade, there would have to be a ball. ‘Couldn’t you cry off? Volunteer to be the one on duty?’

  Siegfried groaned. ‘Tried that. But it’s the one night when the passengers are happy to forget about Flight Control. We all have to attend. And dance.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be a truly gracious evening. I’d like to see the commander dance. A foxtrot I presume.’

  ‘Foxtrot!’ Siegfried broke into a lupine grin. ‘You should see him tango.’

  Smith’s laughter doubled. ‘I wouldn’t miss that for the world. Well, sorry to have dragged you from your duties. I’ll let you get back to the Quest of Askatar.’

  He sauntered out, just as Faber and Addo returned. They nodded in reply to his cheery greeting.

  ‘Just as long as I get to choose my partner,’ Faber was saying.

  ‘Mrs Clunes,’ replied Addo. ‘She’s taken a fancy to you.’

  ‘Clunes!’ shrieked Faber.

  ‘You’re not here to enjoy yourself.’

  Smith strolled on. So the surprise ball must be soon. Excellent. He was anticipating the idea complacently as he passed the tarnished, rococo doors of the dining salon.

  ‘Mr Smith! The very man.’

  Smith looked in. Foxe and McBride were in conference under one of the Perspex chandeliers.

  ‘Commander?’

  ‘Hush hush preparations here, Smith,’ said Foxe. ‘We need your assistance.’

  ‘Certainly!’ Smith sprang forward, almost to attention. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I need someone to swing from that chandelier.’

  ‘The chandelier?’ Smith glanced up at it, at a loss.

  ‘Yes. One of Bridey’s ersatz trimmings, cluttering up my beautiful ship. I think it’s coming loose. Bridey says not. Let’s see, shall we?’

  Smith eyed the dangling beads again, then glanced askance at the commander. Foxe was stony faced. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to get a mechanic to check it?’ Smith suggested.

  Foxe looked disappointed. ‘I thought you were keen to be helpful. Mr Smith.’

  ‘Within my practical scope, of course.’

  ‘And what is your practical scope? General opinion among the troops is that your Triton contract is a cover for something altogether more suspicious.’

  Smith looked affronted. ‘Idle gossip, Commander. I wouldn’t have thought you’d listen to that.’

  ‘Naturally I listen to gossip, idle or otherwise. And I listen to reason and do my own research.’

  ‘Well then.’

  ‘So I researched the John Smith you claim to be. The one who worked for Hyram electronics until a month or so ago. He retired through ill health, in his late sixties.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You’re not in your late sixties, Mr Smith. I’d say you were a better match for Field Officer John Smith. Twenty-eight. Seccor Intelligence, personnel file number 4967B-39A. Five years exemplary service. Bronze ADV. Currently attached to division Delta. Last report filed from M1, just before you joined us.’

  ‘Ah,’ repeated Smith. ‘May I congratulate you on your superlative memory for data.’

  ‘Please do, and then you can tell me what you are really doing on my ship.’

  Smith squared his shoulders and turned to McBride. ‘Sir, the captain of this ship is, of course, entitled to be informed, so you must excuse us.’

  ‘Oh no need to be bashful in front of me,’ said McBride.

  ‘On your way, Bridey,’ said Foxe. ‘This isn’t Ragnox Travel business. Go and polish the chrome.’

  ‘If I must.’ Sighing, McBride departed, shutting the doors behind him with a flourish.

  Smith glanced round the deserted dining salon. ‘You’ll understand my reluctance to speak in front of McBride, Commander.’

  Foxe stroked his beard, with a hint of a smile. ‘Have Bridey’s crooked ways caught up with him at last?’

  ‘We’ve had him in our sights for some time now,’ said Smith.

  ‘I’m surprised Seccor Police hasn’t snapped him up before now. But I can’t imagine that Brian McBride’s greasy fingers have earned us a visit from Seccor Intelligence.’

  ‘Of course not. Very well, Commander. My mission is classified, but you do have a right to know anything appertaining to the safety of this ship.’

  ‘I’m glad I don’t have to quote regulations to you.’

  ‘I am engaged in Operation Checkpoint. Delta 4982, if you’d like to verify the records.’ Smith smiled wryly, ‘It seems you have access to Security files not normally accessible to the public.’

  ‘We have a Seccor officer in residence,’ Foxe pointed out.

  Smith wrinkled his nose disdainfully. ‘Sergeant Roper is with Seccor Police. He exceeds his authority if he pries into Intelligence files on your behalf.’

  ‘I think not, Mr Smith. Whilst on this vessel, Sergeant Roper’s authority stems solely from the captain. Me.’

  ‘Unless and until matters of overriding security importance oblige me to take command of the vessel.’ Smith refused to be cowed by Faxe’s basilisk glare. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to quote regulations to you either, Commander. Let’s hope the necessity doesn’t arise.’

  Foxe took a deep breath and folded his arms. ‘Very well then, Mr Smith. Suppose you tell me what Operation Checkpoint is about.’

  ‘Piracy.’

  ‘If it’s Delta Division, of course it’s piracy. Is the Heloise at risk, or are we suspects?’

  ‘Please, rest assured you’re totally safe as far as Jupiter. Delta Division has done an exceptional job eliminating Inner Circle piracy. But our remit extends beyond the Protocol line, to illegal syndicates operating in the deregulated zone…’ Smith’s authoritative drawl petered out. He had said the wrong thing. Foxe’s eyes were narrowing, ominously.

  ‘And I, perhaps, am suspected of being involved in…’ Foxe paused, before mouthing the words with disdain. ‘Outer Circle illegality?’

  ‘Commander, your integrity has never been questioned,’ said Smith cautiously. ‘But the Heloise will be going Out and I have joined you because we’re targeting one particular organisation operating in the vicinity of Triton…’ He should never have started on this. Too late to take any of it back, but it was definitely time to stop. ‘I’m sorry but I’m not at liberty to tell you more.’

  Foxe turned his back on Smith, pacing down the salon, presumably contemplating these revelations. Smith watched him, promising himself a kicking.

  Foxe spun round again, his expression deadly serious. ‘Naturally I don’t want to hamper Seccor’s crusade against crime in the Outer Circles.’ He met Smith’s eye. ‘So I suppose I must be content to carry you all the way to Triton.’

  Smith shrugged apologetically. ‘Please, Commander. Forget I am here. You are not a serious suspect, so regard me simply as a paying passenger.’

  ‘Paid for by Jordan Pascal.’

  ‘Yes, Seccor has an agreement with Ragnox.’

  ‘As do I.’

  ‘But if you require an extra subsidy from Seccor, feel free to ask payment in kind. Anything I can do. We are a Public Service Corporation.’

  ‘You are most generous.’ Foxe smiled malevolently. ‘In that case, please, do me a public service and swing from that chandelier.’

  Smith laughed.

  Foxe didn’t. ‘Humour me. I have this urge to see you hanging.’

  Smith changed his mind. Quickly gauging the distance, he sprang and grabbed the suspect chandelier with both hands. ‘Public service,’ he said, dangling effortlessly.

  ‘I think we can confirm that the fixture is safe,’ said Foxe. ‘Feel free to return to your companions. I imagine you’ll be eager to compare notes with Miss
Jole - since you are both scions of Seccor.’

  Smith, still swinging, looked down on him without a word. No way was Maggy a Seccor agent.

  ‘She’s an informer,’ said Foxe. ‘A very enthusiastic amateur, according to her files.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘She visits me regularly to keep me informed, most assiduous and very observant.’

  ‘Ah,’ repeated Smith.

  Foxe smiled and opened the door. ‘So I’m sure, if you do get up to anything untoward, she’ll tell me all about it.’

  With the commander gone, Smith swung a moment longer, grimacing as he replayed their conversation. As close to disaster as he’d come in a long time. Then he smiled and dropped to the floor with the lithe grace of a cat. ‘Well thank you for that, Dr Tod.’

  ‘Miss Jole. Maggy. May I come in?’ Smith would have raised his hat, had he been wearing one.

  Maggy blushed prettily. ‘Oh. Please. Yes.’ She stood back to let him enter.

  She was dressing for dinner, down to her bottom layer of beige knitwear. Not nearly concealing enough. Smith studiously looked elsewhere, around the cabin. ‘Charming.’ Chintz cushions. And silver picture frames. Silver plate. Almost worthless. But the pictures within, of course, were worth everything to Maggy. She followed his gaze.

  ‘My family,’ she said, with genteel pride.

  ‘Very handsome,’ said Smith, studying them earnestly. An elderly couple beamed out from their chairs, under a flowered porch, neat, respectable, affectionate. A young professional couple posed with their two polished children, and their well-groomed dog. ‘Your brother, perhaps?’

  ‘Brother-in-law,’ said Maggy promptly. ‘That’s my sister Anne, with her husband Paul, and their children Simon and Alice.’

  Mr Smith nodded admiringly. ‘You are obviously very close. They must be missing you.’

  ‘I hope not too much. We will try to keep in touch of course.’ She sounded solemn, but not distressed.

  ‘These are your parents? What a charming smile your mother has. I’m sure they’re very proud of you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Tensing suddenly, Maggy took the picture from him and placed it where she couldn’t see it. ‘I hope they will be.’

  Interesting. ‘I was hoping☐’ Smith coughed, shuffled, stood to attention. ‘Miss Jole.’ Deep breath. ‘Would you do me the inestimable honour of being my partner at the ball?’

  ‘Ball?’ said Maggy, faintly.

  ‘The good commander is hosting a ball for his passengers. A very grand event. Am I asking too much in hoping that you will accompany me?’

  ‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ Maggy recovered her voice. ‘I had heard. Yes. Although I don’t know if I have anything suitable to wear.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sure Commander Foxe won’t want you to worry about that,’ said Smith. ‘He has quite a fatherly regard for you, you know.’

  ‘Does he?’ Maggy glowed. She certainly blossomed at the mere mention of authority. Informer. Yes, that rang true. The truest thing about her. ‘I don’t suppose he gives me a second’s thought.’

  ‘On the contrary, he showed great interest in your welfare.’ Smith took her hand between his own. ‘As do I, Maggy.’

  She blushed again.

  ‘But…’ Smith paused, frowned, looked earnest. ‘Miss Jole, in the circumstance, I think there’s something I should tell you. About myself. So that there should be no misunderstandings between us. I haven’t been strictly honest about myself.’

  ‘Oh. You mean…’ She put a hand to her throat. ‘You’re not—’

  ‘Not in cyber-nexus analysis, no. That’s just cover. But since I’m asking you to partner me to the ball, I feel I ought to confide in you that I am actually with Seccor.’

  ‘Oh!’ Wave after wave of emotion washed across Maggy’s face, first white, then red. Fear, enlightenment, indigestion, and finally joy. ‘Seccor?’

  ‘Yes, I’m an agent with Seccor Intelligence. I am telling you this in strict confidence, Maggy, because I’m sure that you can be trusted with my secret.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course! Is it a secret?’

  ‘A deadly secret, Maggy. I am working under cover and no one must know. You do understand that?’

  She nodded, instantly business-like and dependable. ‘I won’t breathe a word to anyone. You can rely on me.’

  ‘Miss Jole, I knew I could.’ Smith bowed, then leaned forward and planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘Maggy.’

  She clasped his hand. ‘You can rely on me, Mr Smith. For anything.’

  ‘John, please. My dear.’

  ‘Yes. Dear John.’

  He contrived to glance at his watch. Just under four minutes. A record, even for him.

  Chapter 8

  ‘Oh God, look at them.’ Abigail was watching Smith guiding Maggy round the dance floor. ‘Don’t tell me they’re actually enjoying themselves.’

  ‘I don’t know I’d put it that strongly,’ said Christie. She was finding it difficult coming to terms with her own presence there. For the last couple of weeks, the ship had been humming with preparations and rising hysteria. It was all so excruciating, her instinct had been to hide inside a vodka bottle in her cabin, so why had she changed her mind at the last moment? Perhaps the camp absurdity in all its tacky glory was just irresistible.

  Most of the women passengers had been thronging the ship’s dress shops, fighting over sequins and satin. She hadn’t been able to conjure up that much commitment, but she did unearth a dress from her chaotic wardrobe. A vastly expensive designer dress, with a touch of gypsy abandon. It had created a storm in Platinum City but hardly appropriate for Triton. There had been no rationale to her packing. Random items had accumulated, while she had been too drunk to have any idea what she was doing.

  Maggy had thriftily contented herself with her best frock, velvet bodice and tartan skirt. It certainly whirled magnificently.

  Nothing thrifty about Abigail, of course, despite her supercilious contempt for the whole enterprise. She was in a slender, silver mesh number, a mermaid, ethereal and desirable. Unattainable, of course. Panting men shuffled around her, but she was heartless. She’d danced twice, with Chief Officer Addo and with one of the more presentable passengers, exhibiting her natural grace with imperial indifference, but now she stood aloof, freezing out further offers.

  Christie watched, amused. The girl obviously didn’t realise that, despite her dismissive pouting and studied indifference, her attention was very obviously fixed on Commander Foxe.

  But then, so was Christie’s, if for very different reasons. She ransacked her addled memory, as she watched him parading round the hall in his ridiculous Sergeant Pepper gear, with an endless succession of simpering females on his arm. She’d been ransacking it for a couple of months now and was no nearer enlightenment. Where? When? Her mind lurched hazily through a long gallery of faces, of boardrooms and conferences and corporate events. Somewhere, at some time, she’d met him before. Why couldn’t she pin him down?

  Smith and Maggy swept to a halt. Smith bowed and led his partner to join them. He beamed. ‘Enjoying the ball, ladies?’

  Abigail looked at him witheringly.

  ‘I think it’s lovely,’ said Maggy, patting her wrists with a handkerchief, and checking to see that her tartan skirt hadn’t sustained damage.

  ‘Can I get you some punch?’ offered Smith.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ simpered Maggy.

  Abigail winced and then, quite suddenly, she was alert. Christie didn’t need to turn to guess why. She gestured a languid indifference by raising her vodka bottle. She hadn’t danced, so her hair, loosely neatened for the occasion, was still subdued, but she could sense its urge to revolt. This was the stage in the evening at which everything began not to matter, or it began to matter too much. She wasn’t sure yet which way it was going to swing.

  ‘Ladies! How are we?’

  Maggy was instantly at attention as Commander Foxe, behind her, placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Jole.
Did I make you start? Miss Steen.’ His eyes appraised her, mockingly. ‘What can I say? You are looking positively—’

  ‘Hygienic?’

  ‘Indubitably.’ His glance moved on. ‘Miss Dieterman, you’re not dancing. I am astonished.’

  Abigail shrugged, head on one side. The silver shimmered.

  ‘But you have been dancing, Commander,’ said Smith, returning with the punch in silver plastic cups. ‘A sterling performance. Are you obliged to partner every lady on the ship?’

  Foxe chuckled. ‘I think it’s reasonable to delegate, but as Sultan I get first choice.’

  Smith turned to watch Chief Officer Addo spin past them with a petite and almost youthful lady in flowing chiffon. ‘You’ve got the entire crew on their toes, haven’t you?’

  ‘Duty and sacrifice, Mr Smith. Meeting the expectations of our passengers. The sky can fall but, on this night, they want us waltzing.’

  ‘I’d heard the tango was more your style. Or is that just idle rumour?’

  Christie laughed wildly, the vodka bottle rocking. How much more absurdity could the evening conjure up? Last Tango in Ganymede. Ye Gods.

  Foxe looked down loftily on Smith. ‘Idle rumour you think? However, much as I would like to exhibit for your pleasure, I would need a partner. And where would I find one?’

  Christie put the bottle down, pushed herself up from the wall, steadied herself, then held out an imperious hand to Foxe. The Commander’s eyebrows rose, then he smiled, took her hand and swept her onto the floor.

  Whatever it was that Smith was reading on the unguarded Ultima, he was so absorbed he didn’t register her presence.

  ‘Looks as if Maggy has quite a history,’ said Christie, when she finally managed to focus on the screen.

  Smith leapt round in his seat like an electrocuted eel and stared at her. It took him a good two seconds to recover his composure. ‘Ma’am, you are looking at classified information.’

  ‘So are you. I saw you creep out as soon as you thought Foxe was safely occupied.’

  ‘Miss Steen, I do not creep.’

  ‘No, quite right. You strode. Confidence is the key, isn’t it? Look as if you have every right to be doing whatever you’re doing.’