Inside Out

by Thorne Moore

  Other suitors approached, tongues hanging out, ready to risk a smack on the cheek, and a couple of cool rejections restored her equilibrium. So much so that when Commander Foxe appeared with the band, saxophone in hand, she was able to watch and listen without emotion.

  He was very good. He knew he was very good. And subtly, seductively mesmerizing. He knew that too. She admired a man who recognised his own strengths. She knew hers. Modesty was for people with modest assets.

  And he knew she was watching him. She didn’t need to hide it. She wasn’t a little girl to turn faint at the first whiff of animal attraction, or to sulk because he’d chosen to dance with another. She watched him coolly. When the music ceased and he laid down the saxophone, he turned his back on her, but she wasn’t stung, or forlorn. Behave as he might, he had noticed her. He couldn’t help that.

  There was a pause as a rush of fluffy, infatuated ladies descended on the commander, to drown him in their twittering compliments. Let them. Abigail moved away and when the band began playing again, she smiled pityingly as the bustling dancers prepared for the last waltz. Who dreamt up this pathetic ball? Not Foxe. It couldn’t possibly have been Commander Foxe.

  ‘Miss Dieterman.’

  She turned slowly, so that by the time she faced him, she was the disdainful ice-maiden he knew. ‘Commander?’

  ‘May I?’

  She allowed a few seconds to pass before condescending to take his hand.

  Everyone was watching and Abigail was deeply conscious of it. Not that a single glance, or a flutter of her long lashes gave her away. Soon, other couples were on the floor and she allowed her attention to fix upon her partner. A close intimacy, quite different to the last time she’d experienced it. He really wasn’t as old as the grey hair implied. And the regal dignity was so obviously an act. Those eyes. They were more than merely observant, weren’t they? They glinted with quite Satanic mockery.

  She shuddered, felt his grip tighten.

  If she chose, she might find him truly frightening.

  Or she could surrender to the pleasure of the moment. It was the less alarming option.

  Over Maggy’s velvet hair band, Smith observed the other dancers. No sign of Christie, but Foxe was back. He had hoped they’d keep each other occupied for the rest of the evening, but no such luck. He counted heads. Addo, Faber, Siegfried lumbering with an overweight partner, Foxe engaging Abigail in mutual appreciation. No. No good. However pre-occupied the commander appeared to be, he was primed and alert. No second attempt on Flight Control tonight.

  Still, there were other fish to fry. Other citadels to conquer. He smiled at Foxe as they sailed past each other, feeling Maggy’s redoubtable bust heaving against his ribcage. Enough to stiffen any man’s resolve.

  She looked up at him coyly.

  Velvet bows concealing such interesting potential. It really wouldn’t hurt to put their relationship on a more consummate footing.

  He smiled. ‘The last waltz,’ he whispered.

  Merrit stared at the dancers, gutted. He couldn’t even conjure up the energy to sneer any more. It had come to this: penniless, mocked, bullied and now he’d been repulsed by Maggy Jole, for Christ’s sake. How much lower could he sink? He just wanted to crawl under a table and die quietly.

  ‘Oh, darling, are you sitting this one out? We can’t have that.’ A first-class passenger, what was her name? Mrs Something Simpson Travis Parker. A brassy woman, always tipsy, always shrieking with laughter. He’d sniggered at her often enough. How was it then that he was dancing with her, pressed to the turquoise brocade straining across her ample bosom? He didn’t remember agreeing, but her will-power overwhelmed the deathly inertia that had seized him.

  What if Abigail saw him? He trembled at the thought, preparing to push his partner away, while she cooed in his ear. How could he bear the humiliation of Abigail’s mockery? He could picture her lip curling with scorn.

  Well, let her scoff. He stopped resisting. The struggle really wasn’t worth it, and it was restful against Mrs. Simpson Travis Parker’s bosom. Warm and soft and reassuring. She wasn’t that bad. Quite like his mother really.

  David was comfortable enough, listening to the throbbing of the ship. Its voice was amplified in this cupboard. He’d come in hours before, when he heard the McBride’s footsteps drawing close, coming to get him. McBride hadn’t found him. He’d made muttering noises and then gone away again. It was probably safe for David to come out now, but he was happy where he was. The ship was whispering.

  Selden shuffled. Just the four of them tonight. Parsons had been summoned to escort his wife to the ball. Somewhere up there, in the world of light, people were dancing. Tripping, gliding, flirting, sighing, laughing, embracing, all the things that human beings did. But not him. A perpetual exile from all that. He was no longer a human being. Already dead. Beyond dances and sighs, and far beyond laughter.

  Without a word, he began to deal another hand.

  On her bed in cabin B5, Christie Steen lay, trying to blot out the present and sink into the past. Trying to conjure up again a distant, noisy, exciting day of intense discussion and flattery and flirtation, at a long-forgotten college, when life had been full of creativity, of promise and possibilities. When being Yasmin Gwynne had been a wholly wonderful and admirable thing.

  Instead of now, when being Christie Steen was no more bearable that being Yasmin Gwynne. She pulled the covers over her head and waited for the darkness to suck her down into oblivion.

  Chapter 10

  Junior Officer Timothy Faber was late coming on duty. He expected a reprimand. A week before, with nothing to do but play games and exchange courtesies with sleepy passengers, punctuality hadn’t been an issue, but with the voyage to Ganymede nearing its end, there was work to be done, preparations to be made for the voyage Out, beyond the Protocol Line.

  The Altair multi-player console was off limits, and Tim’s accumulation of orc treasure would have to wait for the return voyage. His task now was to log traffic flow in the Jupiter orbit .

  His partner on the watch, Chief Officer Addo, was at the radio, tuned into OCN Station, noting down the stream of gossip from the deregulated zone. ‘Astro’s lost U57 – saw that coming… Convoy clash at S23. No one we know.’

  Tim tried to slip surreptitiously into his own seat, but Siegfried, ever alert for him, tapped his lips and made a great pantomime show of beckoning him past the commander’s back.

  Foxe was studying the CCTV monitors. ‘You think I wouldn’t notice the ship’s boy creeping in five minutes late?’

  Siegfried glowered and thrust his hands deep in his pockets.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Tim, peering over the commander’s shoulder. ‘Anyone up to no good? Bridey for one.’

  ‘Passenger Welfare Co-ordinator McBride to you, boy,’ said Foxe.

  Tim grinned. ‘What’s his latest scam?’

  ‘I’m not concerned with Ragnox Travel crew.’

  ‘Passengers then?’ Tim glanced along the monitors with interest. ‘But there’s nothing for them to get up to. Ball’s forgotten, theatre’s shut down, everyone’s bored, bored, bored. Probably all comatose by now.’

  Siegfried snorted. Foxe frowned.

  ‘Bad choice of words, Tim,’ said Addo, without looking up from his notes. ‘We’ve just heard Mrs Vandeen is rather more than comatose.’

  ‘You mean less than,’ corrected the commander.

  ‘Dead?’ asked Tim. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Inescapable mortality, boy. She was well over a hundred and had everything short of housemaid’s knee.’

  ‘Do we organise a funeral?’

  ‘Good God no. Spark a dozen heart attacks? Bridey would have hysterics. No, she’s on ice till we arrive at Ganymede. One of the empty meat freezers.’

  ‘We’re waiting to see if the other passengers miss her,’ said Addo. ‘So far, so good. They’re too jaded to think about anything.’

  Foxe smiled. ‘Unlike the Triton cubs, but they’re n
ot interested in Mrs Vandeen. Too occupied with their own panic attacks.’

  Tim looked instinctively at the screen offering a bird’s eye view of the observation lounge. ‘Is the lady smashing up the bar again?’

  ‘Miss Steen is in her cabin, sleeping off a hangover,’ said Foxe.

  ‘Slightly foxed,’ suggested Siegfried.

  Foxe quelled him with a baleful stare. ‘She’s not a problem, drunk or sober. She’s intent on Triton. So is Selden. He hasn’t got anywhere else to go.’

  ‘And the Rabiotti boy? What do you make of him?’

  ‘A foreign language. I need an interpreter.’

  Addo looked up, shaking his head, his lip curled in quiet disgust. ‘What sort of man would send a boy like that out to Triton? He won’t last five minutes.’

  Foxe stroked his beard. ‘Rabiotti’s son will be under Pascal’s personal protection. That’s the best guarantee of survival anyone can have on Triton.’

  ‘If he’s that important,’ said Tim, ‘why’s he travelling with us? Rabiotti could have put him on a priority express and whisked him there in a third of the time, couldn’t he?’

  ‘And everyone would know about it,’ said Foxe. ‘I suspect Rabiotti senior doesn’t want the world to know where his son is.’ He scanned the screens quickly. ‘Speaking of which, where exactly is he? Not in his cabin. McBride’s been looking for him.’

  ‘Must be magic in the Rabiotti name, to make McBride stir himself.’ Addo strolled over to join the hunt. No sign of David, but he did point out a couple drinking coffee on the C-Deck concourse. ‘Maid Maggy in love. What do you reckon, Tod?’

  Foxe gazed at the vision of tenderness. ‘Maggy had her mind very firmly set on Triton. I hope Sir Lancelot isn’t diverting her. She’s the sort who can only cope with one fixation at a time.’

  ‘He’s drooling over her.’ Tim was bemused. He was fully appreciative of the allure of Abigail Dieterman, despite the slap she’d given him at the ball. But dowdy Maggy Jole? Smith’s excessive gallantry was a mystery.

  But not to the passers-by, eking out the dragging hours in the shopping mall. They were all pausing to coo over the couple.

  ‘Now what is that?’ mused Foxe. Maggy was holding out her hand for a couple of ladies to examine with raptures of delight. ‘He’s given her a ring! Ye gods, has this man no shame?’

  ‘Official engagement then?’ asked Tim.

  Maggy looked smugly content, yet there was an anxious flutter in her glances at Smith, as if he might escape.

  ‘She’d certainly like it to be,’ said Foxe. ‘I suspect the ring is payment for pleasures already received.’

  ‘No! She’d never let him get past her winceyette vest.’

  Foxe glanced at Tim sidelong. ‘Haven’t you learned yet how deceptive appearances can be?’

  Tim looked again. True, Smith was glowing with satisfaction as he squeezed Maggy’s hand, before releasing it to stir his coffee. Then, looking directly up at the hidden lens, straight at his audience in Flight Control, he raised the spoon to his mouth and licked it, slowly and sensuously. And smiled.

  Tim and Siegfried laughed.

  Foxe wagged a finger at Seccor’s finest. ‘I am going to get you, boy.’

  Addo clapped Foxe on the shoulder. ‘Are you sure you and he aren’t related?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do I know his mother?’

  ‘Who can tell? I doubt if she’s called Mrs. Smith.’

  ‘I’ll let him play his games, but he better not give Maggy dreams of nesting on Ganymede. She’s in for enough shocks as it is.’

  Tim was looking at the next screen, B-Deck accommodation. He yelped with delight. ‘Ha! Look at that dick-head.’

  Merrit Burnand was backing cautiously into his cabin, with furtive glances up and down the corridor to make sure no one was watching. Guaranteed to attract attention.

  Addo moved round the commander to watch. ‘What’s that sad idiot up to now?’

  Foxe smiled. ‘He’s been in and out of his cabin every five minutes. Stock-taking, I imagine. Sorting out what’s left of his unimaginative cache of drugs.’

  Tim risked a challenge. ‘You said it was illegal to pry into passengers’ cabins. Clause 2,498Z of the Protection of Privacy Protocol, or something?’

  Foxe laughed. ‘It’s not illegal to guess, and Burnand is predictability personified. He sees himself as a hard man on the make. Unfortunately for him, the world just sees him coming.’

  He looked up, as Abigail came into view in the casino. ‘They see this one too. For different reasons.’

  They watched.

  Abigail responded with a shrug of supreme disdain to the looks of commiseration as she lost a bet. A picture of ice-cold indifference. Then another passenger brushed passed, touching her, and she spun round, her mouth open in a gasp, her face pale, eyes dilated. The mask was shattered. But only for a moment. In an instant she’d recovered, the pout and the hooded weariness returning to conceal her panic.

  ‘A bad case there,’ said Addo. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Fever?’ suggested Foxe.

  ‘Mm. I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Does it look serious?’ asked Tim, anxiously leaning in to study her.

  Siegfried hissed with disgust. ‘What do you care about that bitch? She slapped your face!’

  Tim shrugged. Abigail was so divine, he’d forgive her anything. ‘She was uptight.’

  ‘She still is,’ said Foxe. ‘Uptight, feverish and I fear she’s sinking fast. Don’t fret, boy, there’s a cure for everything these days. We’ll look after Miss Dieterman.’

  Just two days left. Surely nothing major could go wrong now. So thought Chief Personnel Officer McBride, marshalling his sheep into the dining salon for yet another three-course tinned and reconstituted banquet.

  Long gone was any enthusiasm for the cruise. The passengers were now heartily sick of the ship and never wanted to see their fellow travellers again. The petty irritations of the voyage were no longer being borne with stoic goodwill and the salons were humming with disgruntled mutterings. Those with interests awaiting them switched their thoughts to the future and began to drum their fingers through the tedious present. Clandestine lovers calculated rapidly and edged towards an embarrassed parting or braced themselves for an imminent reckoning.

  At least no one had yet mentioned Mrs Vandeen.

  McBride watched as diners drifted in, some somnolent, some bickering, some vexed about nothing in particular. Happiness would be too much to expect, but indifference would do nicely. Yes, fortunately, indifference seemed to predominate.

  Mr Bignold was reserved but steady. Good. No trouble there. Mrs Lo looked weepy, but not yet actually in tears. That was an improvement.

  Abigail Dieterman swept past. Not quite herself. Not the usual sweep, more a sort of hesitant charge. She stopped, looking around as if confused, started again. Stopped, patting her neck which glistened with perspiration. Took another step. Then slowly, gracefully, keeled over.

  ‘Wonderful,’ thought McBride. ‘Just what I need.’

  The purser looked on with concern as Doctor Sang fussed over his unconscious patient. Genuine concern. Their arrival at Ganymede was imminent and an unspecified sickness had erupted on the ship – McBride was having palpitations of his own. Please God, let Sang make it go away.

  The doctor straightened up and shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But it’s nothing serious.’

  Sang looked at him blankly. ‘She’s unconscious.’

  ‘Fainted. She’s just fainted. Too hot, that’s what it is.’

  ‘She is certainly running a very high temperature.’

  ‘There you are then.’

  ‘Until I know for sure—’

  ‘You see, she’ll come round in a minute.’ McBride caught raised voices outside. ‘Let’s not alarm the passengers, right?’ He opened the door and stepped out into the waiting room.

  The B-Deck passengers had assembled in a show of coll
ective concern. Maggy was there because she thought it was expected, David was there because he was swept in the flow, Merrit was there out of prurient curiosity, Christie looked concerned and Smith was there because of course Smith was there.

  Even Selden was there, since he’d been the one with the indifferent presence of mind, when Abigail collapsed, to pick her up, sling her unceremoniously over his shoulder and cart her down to the infirmary.

  Now they hovered, all silent except for Maggy who muttered ‘Dreadful’ and ‘Shocking,’ while Smith patted her hand.

  McBride attempted a reassuring smile. He had a disaster in the making and Sang wasn’t helping by looking so furtively defensive. ‘Now there’s nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Miss Dieterman has picked up a simple virus. Flu probably. The doctors will have her well again in no time.’

  The doctor opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘And if she needs extra attention, we’ll be docking at Ganymede in two days,’ continued McBride blithely. ‘They have the very best nursing facilities there.’

  The doctor opened his mouth again.

  ‘And, of course, the company will spare no expense,’ said McBride. ‘You can all rest assured—’

  ‘You.’ Selden pointed a stubby finger at McBride. The sort of finger a wise man didn’t argue with. McBride took the hint.

  Christie asked the obvious question. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  The doctor coughed. ‘It’s too early to give any definite diagnosis. We’ll have to continue with tests.’

  ‘Can we see her?’

  ‘She’s, er, sleeping. That is, she’s not conscious.’

  ‘But alive?’

  ‘Oh yes. But best not disturb her—’

  Before McBride could stop her, Christie pushed past him and opened the door to the ward, revealing Abigail supine under a white sheet.