by Thorne Moore
‘Contrary to what you might imagine, I do have every right. I am, in fact, a Seccor officer.’
‘Oh, my ears and whiskers, what a surprise.’ Christie slumped into a chair, inertia taking over. ‘I suppose that’s what your files will say, so there’s no point me looking.’
Smith looked at her sidelong. ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’
‘Haven’t found my records yet?’
‘Give me a little longer.’
‘Found Foxe?’
‘Of course I’ve found Foxe.’
‘And what have you learned?’
He smiled tantalisingly. ‘Shall I betray his little secret? I can tell you that Commander Foxe has acquired some very impressive qualifications and an exemplary record.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Commander Foxe.
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Smith, jumping up. ‘Can’t a man get any peace round here?’
‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr Smith. You should be alert at all times. Dear heart.’ The commander handed Christie a red rose. ‘You dropped it.’
‘I thought you were busy with the Kingston ladies.’ She took the rose lethargically.
‘I delegated. A commander has so many duties. Such as ensuring that passengers don’t run amok in Flight Control, while his back is turned.’
‘I am not running amok.’ Smith was his usual coolly brash self again. ‘You are fully aware that I’m within my authority here—’
‘He has told me, in confidence, that he’s a Seccor Intelligence Officer,’ said Foxe.
Smith folded his arms. ‘I suppose I’m not going to be allowed to get on with my work without interruption.’
‘Mr Smith, how very perceptive of you. If you wish to use my ship for Seccor business, put in an official request through official channels. Please don’t use my facilities for your private crusades.’
‘An investigation into illegal practises on the Heloise is not my private crusade, it’s my duty.’
‘What illegal practises?’
Smith tapped the Ultima. ‘I mean the illegal installation of military equipment on a civilian ship.’
‘An ex-military model, Mr Smith. Surplus to requirements. You’ll find the purchase fully accounted for, and as you’ll have noticed, the military modifications were removed prior to sale. However, if you still harbour suspicions about it, you and I, Mr Smith, will go together to Seccor HQ on Ganymede and demand that it be examined and approved by the proper authorities. Openly and above board – and you are not here openly and above board, are you?’
Smith smiled, in ungrudging surrender.
‘So, now you’ve investigated Miss Jole, you can suspend your examination of passenger files.’
‘I was merely testing my theories regarding this machine. Maggy won’t mind. She has complete trust in me.’
‘Her amateur career hasn’t put you on your guard, then?’
‘On my guard?’ Smith rose to his feet, staring Foxe in the eye, or as near as the Commander’s superior height would allow. ‘I have no need to guard against Miss Jole. She and I are engaged.’
Foxe roared with laughter. ‘Oho. My congratulations, on your speed if nothing else. Will we have the nuptials soon? The passengers enjoy an occasion.’
‘Maggy appreciates that because of the sensitive nature of my work, we must postpone the actual wedding until after Ganymede.’
‘Of course. On your mission to eradicate crime in the Outer Circles.’
Christie looked from one to the other, intrigued. Foxe was smiling maliciously. Smith was looking ever so slightly discomfited.
‘Maybe I was slightly misleading you, Commander. If you’d like to see the real remit of Operation Checkpoint—’
‘No, Mr Smith, I’d like to see you leaving Flight Control. I’d like you to go back to your fiancée and partner her as you promised, before she wilts with neglect and disappointment. That would be a much better idea.’
Smith shrugged, giving in. ‘Very well, Commander, but I do have your word—’
‘Good night, Mr Smith.’
Foxe watched him leave, then turned back to Christie.
She was still stretched in her chair, laughing silently.
‘You find us amusing?’ asked Foxe.
She crossed her legs, flicking her skirt free. ‘You and Smith circle each other like a couple of tom cats in the moonlight. I can’t decide. Do you have a special dislike for him, or a special liking?’
‘Mr Smith thinks he can pull my strings. I admire his gall, but I can’t let him get away with it.’
She smiled. ‘Is this Ultima thing a military model?’
‘In a sense.’
‘And its significance is...?’
‘It could take attachments that would allow it to decipher, decrypt, de-block and generally discombobulate anything that tried to keep it out. And it could be modified to mask and disperse its own pulse transmission so that its prey wouldn’t even realise it was being infiltrated.’
‘That sounds thoroughly illegal, Commander.’
‘It is. So there are no modifications in place, because I never break the law.’
‘Where the law runs.’
‘Quite so, Miss Steen. Outer Circle legality is an oxymoron. Once we are in the deregulated zone, I’d be a fool not to take advantage of any useful tool available. And I’m not a fool. Do you think Mr Smith appreciates that?’
‘Oh I think he does. Just as you have the measure of Mr Smith.’
‘I can’t have conundrums wandering round my ship. I like to have you all precisely defined and in your place.’
‘What little pigeonhole have you selected for me?’
‘That of a gracious lady who will permit me to escort her back to the ball.’
Christie rose. ‘Meaning that you want me out of Flight Control, and I should make it easier by coming quietly.’
‘That would be one way of paraphrasing it,’ agreed Foxe, proffering his arm. ‘Why did you come?’ he asked, as they headed for the corridor. ‘To see if Smith was checking up on you, perhaps?’
‘Why would he be?’
‘I think quite a few people might be trying to track you down, don’t you?’
She studied him in the dimmer light of the corridor. Who the hell was he? She was desperate to reclaim some iota of that past in which his ghostly image resided, but it was all one muddled blur of darkness. Concentrate on the eyes. They wouldn’t have changed. Once before they had looked at her, just as they were looking at her now. Amused. Taunting.
Suddenly she wasn’t in the mood for cat and mouse. ‘The truth is, I left the ball because I’d had enough. It was beginning to turn my stomach.’
‘Then I shall be an officer and a gentleman and escort you to your cabin.’
‘I have been known to find the way myself.’
‘And you’ve also been known to collapse in a corner while looking for it.’ They reached her room. He took the key from her and opened the door. ‘But here you are, safe and sound.’
There she was. With the aggravating riddle still itching. She needed it solved. Now. ‘Still playing the officer and gentleman? Or are you still in tom cat mode?’
He smiled.
‘If you’re after a shag, you’d better come in.’
‘You always did have a gift with words,’ said Foxe, following her in and gently shutting the door.
Christie stared up at shadows pulsating on the ceiling. Somewhere in the room a light must be flashing. Some gadget that she’d dropped, thrown or tripped over, was weaving light and dark in a never-ending dance. Never ending.
‘Is this standard post-coital blues or did my technique lull you into a stupor?’ asked the commander, raising himself on one elbow.
‘Neither.’ She stirred herself with an effort. ‘I didn’t think you’d be looking for conversation, and other needs have been satisfied.’
‘So soon? A sad blow to my ego.’
‘Your ego can take it. It’s pl
ump, perky and full of itself.’
‘And how is yours?’
‘Non-existent.’
‘I thought my deep massaging skills might have breathed a little life into it. Restored you to the woman I remember.’
‘I said your ego was in fine fettle.’ No good. She gave in, opening her eyes fully. ‘Go on! Spit it out. We’ve met before. I know we have. Just tell me before I go crazy.’
He smiled. ‘Eighteen years ago?’
‘Eighteen! Good God.’ She sat up, rubbing the heel of her hand hard between her eyes. ‘That was…’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Another era. Another universe.’ She looked at him clearly, blocking out the age of darkness. Suffocated memories began to coil and clarify. ‘It was… wait.’
He waited.
‘A party? A festival. Arts festival. Somewhere. A college.’
‘Very good!’
‘I was there to...’ Her thoughts drifted away.
‘You were an ardent young poet, reading your first published work. Unconverging Lines, by Yasmin Gwynne.’
She laughed her pain. Then shut her eyes, wincing. Like a mystery plucked from deep water, the image suddenly became crystal clear. ‘You were giving a lecture.’ She breathed out a long sigh of relief. ‘A professor of literature. The soul in paraphrase. George Herbert. Yes! Yes, the Metaphysicals.’ She looked at him with relief, the conundrum solved at last. ‘You didn’t have a beard then. Longer hair. Less bulk – but that’s the padded jacket, isn’t it? I remember a lot of adoring female students hating me because I had your attention. Tod. That’s right, isn’t it? They called you Tod. Tod the Fox.’
‘Different time, different image.’
She smiled broadly. ‘Entirely different. You were witty. And rude. You played the saxophone.’
‘I still do. Ask the crew.’
She shook her head. ‘Dr Tod Foxe. Thank God. This must be what it’s like to have a boil lanced.’
‘That’s one comparison I’ve never been subjected to before.’
‘How long did it take you to recognise me?’
‘Five minutes? I’ve always retained a vivid image of you. Yasmin Gwynne. I followed your career with fascination.’ The scalpel edge of his amusement sliced to the surface. ‘Such a meteoric plunge from creative, original, spirited poet, to alcoholic head of Ragnox’ propaganda division. The most spectacular betrayal of potential I’ve ever come across. I congratulate you.’
She met his scornful eyes. ‘If you have ideas of stinging me into terminal shame, don’t bother. It’s already done.’
‘That is obvious,’ he said. She reached over him for the bottle that stood by the bed, but he took it from her. ‘What happened?’
She lay back, refusing to fight him for it. ‘Leprosy. Dry rot.’
‘Ah. You mean you had no choice but to succumb. Poor, feeble victim, deprived of free will.’
‘Bastard.’ She snatched for the bottle, wresting it from him. ‘Yes, I had a choice and I chose to throw it all away, all that love, truth and integrity in a garret stuff. I sold out. To Ragnox. At least I didn’t mess with the small fish. I fed myself straight to the biggest shark in the tank.’
‘And just how easily did they reel you in?’
‘Oh, so easily. Didn’t you know Ragnox was a philanthropic patron of the arts? A tax dodge. They wanted to commission a piece. No restrictions, no creative interference. I was free to compose.’ She shut her eyes. ‘They paid, you see. Not a lot, just more than I’d ever been paid before. I took it, I did the work, and my integrity was unblemished. Then they sponsored my second book, and what could be wrong with doing some occasional publicity for them, and being honest but not quite so poor? Except that one day I woke up and realised I wasn’t so honest either. But by then, they’d bought me. It wasn’t just the money. I discovered I was good at spin. Seriously good. Information and Promotion – propaganda. I fell for the challenge.’
‘And kept falling, right to the very lowest circle.’
She gave a twisted smile. ‘My feminine intuition, you see. A gift for anticipation. I could connect dots before the picture emerged and predict when something, somewhere, would need to be clarified. Accidents, disasters, swindles. I’d have the explanation ready before Head Office even realised there was trouble brewing. It was a game and I was good at it. So good, Pascal started looking my way. A useful asset. In Ragnox, what Pascal wants, he gets, so that was it. I had to play his games. Dirty games. Disgusting games. He wanted hatchet jobs done on anyone in his way, within the corporation or without. And you don’t refuse Jordan Pascal.’
‘No, you get drunk instead.’
‘Yes, I get drunk. As quickly and as often as possible.’
‘If Pascal summoned you, you’d be straight out to Triton on an A-class Superlynx, not trundling along on a D-class freighter, so I’m guessing they finally sacked you.’
‘No. I sacked myself. I realised, finally, that I’d sold my soul beyond any hope of redemption, and I just walked out. Disappeared. Left a two-word note and a pile of clothes on a riverbank. I doubt if they looked for me very hard. I’d become a liability.’
‘Who is Christie Steen?’
‘The granddaughter of a cleaner in my department. Died of leukemia. A sweet girl. Honest, brave, everything I’m not. So…’ She took a swig, challenging him. ‘No good looking down on me with such puritanical contempt. I’m beyond feeling it. And maybe you’re not so undefiled, yourself. Am I the only one who sold out? What exactly turned you from an engaging professor of literature into a stuffed peacock taking a freighter to the outermost circles for Jordan Pascal?’
He retrieved the bottle and placed it firmly out of her reach. ‘A logical career move. If you can juggle the internal politics of the staff room with attempts to convince a bunch of juvenile hooligans of the merits of The Wasteland, then the Outer Circles hold no terrors.’
‘Very droll.’
‘It’s just a matter of organisation and impresario skills. My university was bought out. I didn’t fancy staying as a paid minion, so I moved on. Onwards and outwards. Don’t underestimate the rewards. Believe me, an academic gown can’t hold a candle to scarlet braid and epaulettes.’
‘Your university was bought out?’
‘Just a tedious market-place manoeuvre, no more. There’s no place for independent establishments anymore.’
‘Abelard College,’ she said, remembering. ‘And now the Heloise?’
‘Don’t go looking for sentiment. She was called the Hamburg Lugger when we acquired her. I’m in the business of selling a product, and “Heloise” is more marketable.’
She grabbed the slipping cover and wrapped it round her like a cocoon. ‘Bullshit. You’re a fraud, revelling in it.’
‘There speaks the expert.’ Foxe glanced at his watch, and got to his feet, adjusting his clothes. ‘Well, this has been an agreeable interlude, but the ball must be winding up. The stuffed peacock will have to put in an appearance before the last waltz. Keep the ladies happy.’
‘Yes, you’re very good at that. Earning your keep.’
‘I bow to your superior knowledge of the profession.’ He buttoned his jacket and looked down on her. ‘Shall I pay?’
‘Go to hell.’
‘Ah, good to know one of my B-Deck passengers has worked out our destination.’ He handed her the bottle back. ‘Sweet dreams, Yasmin.’
Chapter 9
Maggy felt cruelly abandoned. She’d thought she’d fixed her station for life by catching a fiancé – better still, a Seccor agent. Who would dare question her place, with him at her side? But Smith, after a few dances, had whispered something about vital secret work, and here she was, humiliatingly alone. She’d had offers, but she didn’t want people thinking she was the sort of girl who would dance with anyone. She wanted her official partner back.
The ball was no longer enchanting, which was a pity because she’d schooled herself diligently in the mechanics. Smith had vanished, Commander Foxe had made a di
sgraceful spectacle of himself with Christie, and Abigail had slapped that young officer in the face. What horror would come next?
Maggy turned in search of a sustaining glass of punch and walked straight into Merrit Burnand.
He looked pale, unhealthy, his eyes reddened; he couldn’t have been sleeping well. She’d noticed the tell-tale signs at the dinner table but here at the ball they were painfully clear. He looked soiled.
Merrit stared at her, and she waited, lips pursed, for the inevitable sneer. Instead, his eyes watered. He seized her hand and pulled her towards the dance floor. ‘Let’s dance.’ Not insolent, just a little boy pleading.
‘No, I – really…’ What could she do? She couldn’t make a scene. Merrit’s grip was too strong and she had no option but to oblige. It was slow, drowsy music too, for drooping couples content to prop each other up. It meant holding Merrit tightly. At least she didn’t have to look at him. Just feel him, and he needn’t think she was going to do anything more. He was shaking, drunk. Oh God, what if he vomited down her? She circled with him in horrified expectation. This was terrible. Please God, couldn’t the music just end?
‘Excuse me, Burnand. May I?’
Maggy was awash with joy. Somehow she passed from Merrit’s arms to Smith’s and she almost sobbed with relief. She caught one glimpse of Merrit, abandoned, his face oddly contorted, before the dance wafted him out of sight.
Abigail had recovered herself. In normal circumstances the sight of Commander Foxe and Christie Steen dancing the tango with such spectacular verve would have filled her with derision. How then to account for her very different response? Jealous of Christie, for dancing with Commander Foxe? Ridiculous. Abigail wasn’t interested in him. The world was full of men and any of them were hers for the taking. Why wilt over one grizzly bear that got away?
And he had got away. Vanished. So had Christie. Smith had come and gone and come and she was left abandoned and ignored. Or would have been if young Officer Faber hadn’t rushed to the rescue. If only he hadn’t caught her while she was still numbed by the commander’s indifference. He really hadn’t deserved her petulant slap. Tim Faber was the most acceptable person in the room. Ridiculously young, but good-looking in his uniform. Dancing with him, she’d have drawn all eyes. Still, it was too late now.